The Countess Of Carlisle In Mourning.[1]

When from black clouds no part of sky is clear, But just so much as lets the sun appear, Heaven then would seem thy image, and reflect Those sable vestments, and that bright aspect. A spark of virtue by the deepest shade Of sad adversity is fairer made; Nor less advantage doth thy beauty get, A Venus rising from a sea of jet! Such was th'appearance of new-formed light, While yet it struggled with eternal night. Then mourn no more, lest thou admit increase Of glory by thy noble lord's decease. We find not that the laughter-loving dame Mourn'd for Anchises; 'twas enough she came To grace the mortal with her deathless bed, And that his living eyes such beauty fed; Had she been there, untimely joy, through all Men's hearts diffused, had marr'd the funeral. Those eyes were made to banish grief: as well Bright Phoebus might affect in shades to dwell, As they to put on sorrow: nothing stands, But power to grieve, exempt from thy commands. If thou lament, thou must do so alone; Grief in thy presence can lay hold on none. Yet still persist the memory to love Of that great Mercury of our mighty Jove, Who, by the power of his enchanting tongue, Swords from the hands of threat'ning monarchs wrung. War he prevented, or soon made it cease, Instructing princes in the arts of peace; Such as made Sheba's curious queen resort To the large-hearted Hebrew's famous court. Had Homer sat amongst his wond'ring guests, He might have learn'd at those stupendous feasts, With greater bounty, and more sacred state, The banquets of the gods to celebrate. But oh! what elocution might he use, What potent charms, that could so soon infuse His absent master's love into the heart Of Henrietta! forcing her to part From her loved brother, country, and the sun, And, like Camilla, o'er the waves to run Into his arms! while the Parisian dames Mourn for the ravish'd glory; at her flames No less amazed than the amazèd stars, When the bold charmer of Thessalia wars With Heaven itself, and numbers does repeat, Which call descending Cynthia from her seat.

'Mourning': Carlisle was a luxurious liver, and died in 1636, poor, but, like many spendthrifts, popular. He had represented Prince Charles at his marriage with Princess Henrietta at Paris. 'Dame': Venus.

IN ANSWER TO ONE WHO WRIT A LIBEL AGAINST THE COUNTESS OF CARLISLE.

What fury has provoked thy wit to dare, With Diomede, to wound the Queen of Love? Thy mistress' envy, or thine own despair? Not the just Pallas in thy breast did move So blind a rage, with such a diff'rent fate; He honour won, where thou hast purchased hate.

She gave assistance to his Trojan foe; Thou, that without a rival thou may'st love, Dost to the beauty of this lady owe, While after her the gazing world does move. Canst thou not be content to love alone? Or is thy mistress not content with one?

Hast thou not read of Fairy Arthur's shield, Which, but disclosed, amazed the weaker eyes Of proudest foes, and won the doubtful field? So shall thy rebel wit become her prize. Should thy iambics swell into a book, All were confuted with one radiant look.

Heaven he obliged that placed her in the skies; Rewarding Phoebus, for inspiring so His noble brain, by likening to those eyes His joyful beams; but Phoebus is thy foe, And neither aids thy fancy nor thy sight, So ill thou rhym'st against so fair a light.

OF HER CHAMBER.

They taste of death that do at heaven arrive; But we this paradise approach alive. Instead of death, the dart of love does strike, And renders all within these walls alike. The high in titles, and the shepherd, here Forgets his greatness, and forgets his fear. All stand amazed, and gazing on the fair, Lose thought of what themselves or others are; Ambition lose, and have no other scope, Save Carlisle's favour, to employ their hope. The Thracian could (though all those tales were true The bold Greeks tell) no greater wonders do; Before his feet so sheep and lions lay, Fearless and wrathless while they heard him play. The gay, the wise, the gallant, and the grave, Subdued alike, all but one passion have; No worthy mind but finds in hers there is Something proportion'd to the rule of his; While she with cheerful, but impartial grace, (Born for no one, but to delight the race Of men) like Phoebus so divides her light, And warms us, that she stoops not from her height.

'Thracian': Orpheus.--