Poems upon several occasions with a voyage to the island of love : also The lover in fashion, being an account from Lydicus to Lysander of his voyage from the island of love / by Mrs. A. Behn ; to which is added a miscellany of new poems and songs, by several hands.

To Madam A. Behn on the publication of her Poems.

WHen the sad news was spread, The bright, the fair Orinda's dead, We sigh'd, we mourn'd, we wept, we griev'd, And fondly with our selves conceiv'd, A loss so great could never be retreiv'd.

The Ruddy Warriour laid his Truncheon by, Sheath'd his bright sword, and glorious Arms forgot, The sounds of Triumph, braggs of Victory, Rais'd in his Breast no emulative thought; For pond'ring on the common Lot, Where is, said He the Diff'rence in the Grave, Betwixt the Coward and the Brave? Since She, alas, whose inspir'd Muse should tell To unborn Ages how the Hero fell, From the Impoverisht Ignorant World is fled, T' inhance the mighty mighty Number of the dead.

II.

The trembling Lover broke his tuneless Lute, And said be thou for ever mute: Mute as the silent shades of night, Whither Orinda's gone, Thy musicks best instructress and thy musicks song; She that could make Thy inarticulated strings to speak, In language soft as young desires, In language chaste as Vestal fires; But she hath ta'n her Everlasting flight: Ah! cruel Death, How short's the date of Learned breath! No sooner do's the blooming Rose, Drest fresh and gay, In the embroy'dries of her Native May, Her odorous sweets expose, But with thy fatal knife, The fragrant flow'r is crop't from off the stalk of life.

III.

Come, ye Stoicks, come away, You that boast an Apathy, And view our Golgotha; See how the mourning Virgins all around, With Tributary Tears bedew the sacred ground; And tell me tell me where's the Eye That can be dry, Unless in hopes (nor are such hopes in vain) Their universal cry, Should mount the vaulted sky, And of the Gods obtain, A young succeeding Phoenix might arise From Orinda's spicy obsequies. In Heaven the voice was heard, Heaven does the Virgins pray'rs regard; And none that dwells on high, If once the beauteous Ask, the beauteous can deny.

IV.

'Tis done, 'tis done, th' imperial grant is past, We have our wish at last, And now no more with sorrow be it said, Orinda's dead; Since in her feat Astraea does Appear, The God of Wit hath chosen her, To bear Orinda's and his Character. The Laurel Chaplet seems to grow On her more gracefull Brow; And in her hand Look how she waves his sacred Wand:

Loves Quiver's tyde In an Azure Mantle by her side, And with more gentle Arts Than he who owns the Aureal darts, At once she wounds, and heals our hearts.

V.

Hark how the gladded Nymphs rejoyce, And with a gracefull voice, Commend Apollo's Choice. The gladded Nymphs their Guardian Angel greet, And chearfully her name repeat, And chearfully admire and praise, The Loyal musick of her layes; Whilst they securely sit, Beneath the banners of her wit, And scorn th' ill-manner'd Ignorance of those, Whose Stock's so poor they cannot raise To their dull Muse one subsidy of praise, Unless they're dubb'd the Sexes foes, These squibbs of sense themselves expose. Or if with stolen light They shine one night, The next their earth-born Lineage shows, They perish in their slime, And but to name them, wou'd defile Astraea's Rhime.

VI.

But you that would be truely wise, And vertues fair Idea prize; You that would improve In harmeless Arts of not indecent Love: Arts that Romes fam'd Master never taught, Or in the Shops of fortune's bought.

Would you know what Wit doth mean, Pleasant wit yet not obscene, The several garbs that Humours wear, The dull, the brisk, the jealous, the severe? Wou'd you the pattern see Of spotless and untainted Loyalty, Deck't in every gracefull word That language can afford; Tropes and Figures, Raptures and Conceits that ly, Disperst in all the pleasant Fields of poesie? Reade you then Astraea's lines, 'Tis in those new discover'd Mines, Those golden Quarries that this Ore is found With which in Worlds as yet unknown Astraea shall be crown'd.

VII.

And you th' Advent'rous sons of fame, You that would sleep in honours bed With glorious Trophies garnished; You that with living labours strive Your dying Ashes to survive; Pay your Tributes to Astraea's name Her Works can spare you immortality, For sure her Works shall never dye. Pyramids must fall and Mausolean Monuments decay, Marble Tombs shall crumble into dust, Noisie Wonders of a short-liv'd day, That must in time yield up their Trust; And had e'er this been perisht quite Ith' ruines of Eternal night, Had no kind Pen like her's, In powerfull numbers powerfull verse,

Too potent for the gripes of Avaritious fate, To these our ages lost declar'd their pristine State.

VIII.

But time it self, bright Nymph, shall never Conquer thee, For when the Globe of vast Eternity; Turns up the wrong-side of the World, And all things are to their first Chaos hurl'd, Thy lasting praise in thy own lines inroll'd, With Roman and with the British Names shall Equal honour hold. And surely none 'midst the Poetick Quire, But justly will admire The Trophies of thy wit, Sublime and gay as e'er were yet In Charming Numbers writ. Or Virgil's Shade or Ovid's Ghost, Of Ages past the pride and boast; Or Cowley (first of ours) refuse That thou shouldst be Companion of their Muse. And if 'twere lawfull to suppose (As where's the Crime or Incongruity) Those awfull Souls concern'd can be At any sublunary thing, Alas, I fear they'll grieve to see, That whilst I sing, And strive to praise, I but disparage thee.

By F. N. W.