_J. C._

To the excellent Madam Behn, on her Poems.

‘Twas vain for Man the Laurels to persue, (E’en from the God of Wit bright Daphne flew) Man, Whose course compound damps the Muses fire, It does but touch our Earth and soon expire; While in the softer kind th’.therial flame, Spreads and rejoices as from Heaven it came: This Greece in Sappho, in Orinda knew Our Isle; though they were but low types to you; But the faint dawn to your illustrious day, To make us patient of your brighter Ray. Oft may we see some wretched story told; In ductile sense spread thin as leaves of Gold. You have ingrost th’inestimable Mine; } Which in well polisht Numbers you refine, } While still the solid Mass shines thick in every Line. } Yet neither sex do you surpass alone, } Both in your Verse are in their glory shown, } Both Phæbus and Minerva are your own. } While in the softest dress you Wit dispense, With all the Nerves of Reason and of Sense. In mingled Beauties we at once may trace A Female Sweetness and a Manly Grace. No wonder ‘tis the Delphian God of old Wou’d have his Oracles by Women told. But oh! who e’er so sweetly could repeat Soft lays of Love, and youths delightfull heat? If Love’s Misfortunes be your mournfull Theme, No dying Swan on fair Cayster’s stream, Expires so sweet, though with his numerous Moan, The fading Banks and suffering Mountains groan. If you the gentle Passions wou’d inspire, With what resistless Charms you breathe desire? No Heart so savage, so relentless none, As can the sweet Captivity disown: Ah, needs must she th’unwary Soul surprise, Whose Pen sheds Flames as dangerous as her Eyes.

J. Adams.

To the Authour, on her Voyage to the Island of Love.

To speak of thee no Muse will I invoke, Thou onely canst inspire what shou’d be spoke; For all their wealth the Nine have given to thee, Thy rich and flowing stream has left them dry: Cupid may throw away his useless Darts, Thou’st lent him one will massacre more Hearts Than all his store, thy Pen disarms us so, We yield our selves to the first beauteous Foe; The easie softness of thy thoughts surprise, And this new way Love steals into our Eyes; Thy gliding Verse comes on us unawares, No rumbling Metaphors alarm our Ears, And puts us in a posture of defence; We are undone and never know from whence. So to th’ Assyrian Camp the Angel flew, And in the silent Night his Millions slew. Thou leadst us by the Soul amongst thy Loves, And bindst us all in thy inchanting Groves; Each languishes for thy Aminta’s Charms, Sighs for thy fansied Raptures in her Armes, Sees her in all that killing posture laid, When Love and fond Respect guarded the sleeping Maid, Persues her to the very Bower of Bliss, Times all the wrecking joys and thinks ‘em his; In the same Trance with the young pair we lie, And in their amorous Ecstasies we die. You Nymphs, who deaf to Love’s soft lays have been, Reade here, and suck the sweet destruction in: Smooth is the stream and clear is every thought, And yet you cannot see with what you’re caught; Or else so very pleasing is the Bait, With careless heed you play and leap at it: She poisons all the Floud with such an art, That the dear Philter trickles to the Heart, With such bewitching pleasure that each sup Has all the joys of life in every drop. I see the Banks with Love-sick Virgins strow’d, Their Bosoms heav’d with the young fluttering Gods; Oh, how they pant and struggle with their pain! Yet cannot wish their former health again: Within their Breasts thy warmth and spirit glows, And in their Eyes thy streaming softness flows; Thy Raptures are transfus’d through every vein, And thy blest hour in all their heads does reign; The Ice that chills the Soul thou dost remove, And meltst it into tenderness and Love; The flints about their Hearts dance to thy lays, Till the quick motion sets ‘em on a Blaze. Orpheus and you the stones do both inspire, But onely you out of those flints strike fire, Not with a sudden Spark, a short liv’d Blaze, Like Womens Passions in our Gilting days; But what you fire burns with a constant flame, Like what you write, and always is the same. Rise, all ye weeping Youth, rise and appear, Whom gloomy Fate has damn’d to black Despair; Start from the ground and throw your Mourning by, Loves great Sultana says you shall not die: The dismal dark half year is over past, The Sea is op’d, the Sun shines out at last, And Trading’s free, the storms are husht as death, Or happy Lovers ravisht out of breath; And listen to Astræa’s Harmony, Such power has elevated Poetry.