Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull,

Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

ON MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS

Old Chaucer, like the morning star,

To us discovers day from far.

Which our dark nation long involved;

But he descending to the shades,

Darkness again the age invades. Next, like Aurora, Spenser rose,

Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three, with his own fires Phoebus, the poets' god inspires;

ΤΟ

By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's luster Rome's outshines: These poets near our princes sleep,

And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,

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Of poets, and of orators:
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate:
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jason brought the golden fleece;
To him that language, though to none
Of th' others, as his own was known.
On a stiff gale, as Flaccus sings,
The Theban swan extends his wings,
When through th' ethereal clouds he flies,

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ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667)

THE SWALLOW

Foolish Prater, what do'st thou
So early at my window do

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well 't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel:

There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscovered nest

Thou dost all the winter rest,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,

Free from the stormy season's noise: 10
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;

Who disturbs, or seeks out thee?
Had'st thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou'st ta'en from me away;
Cruel bird, thou 'st ta'en away

A dream out of my arms to-day,
A dream that ne'er must equaled be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair,

Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good can'st bring,

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Though men say, 'Thou bring'st the spring?'