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.

Upon these and other Excellent Works of the Incomparable Astraea.

YE bold Magicians in Philosophy, That vainly think (next the Almighty three) The brightest Cherubin in all the Hierarchy Will leave that Glorious Sphere And to your wild inchantments will appear; To the fond summons of fantastick Charms, As Barbarous and inexplicable Terms: As those the trembling Scorcerer dreads, When he the Magick Circle treads: And as he walks the Mystick rounds, And mutters the detested sounds, The Stygian fiends exalt their wrathfull heads; And all ye bearded Drudges of the Schools, That sweat in vain to mend predestin'd fools, With senseless Jargon and perplexing Rules; Behold and with amazement stand, Behold a blush with shame and wonder too, What Divine Nature can in Woman doe. Behold if you can see in all this fertile Land Such an Anointed head, such an inspired hand.

II.

Rest on in peace, ye blessed Spirits, rest, With Imperial bliss for ever blest: Upon your sacred Urn she scorns to tread, Or rob the Learned Monuments of the dead: Nor need her Muse a foreign aid implore In her own tunefull breast there's wonderous store.

Had she but flourisht in these times of old, When Mortals were amongst the Gods inrolld, She had not now as Woman been Ador'd, But with Diviner sacrifice Implor'd; Temples and Altars had preserv'd her name And she her self been thought Immortal as her fame.

III.

Curst be the balefull Tongue that dares abuse The rightfull off-spring of her Godlike Muse: And doubly Curst be he that thinks her Pen Can be instructed by the best of men. The times to come, (as surely she will live, As many Ages as are past, As long as Learning, Sense, or wit survive, As long as the first principles of Bodies last.) The future Ages may perhaps believe One soft and tender Arm cou'd ne'er atchieve The wonderous deeds that she has done So hard a prize her Conqu'ring Muse has won. But we that live in the great Prophetesses days Can we enough proclaim her praise, We that experience every hour The blest effects of her Miraculous power? To the sweet Mcsick of her charming tongue, In numerous Crowds the ravisht hearers throng: And even a Herd of Beasts as wild as they That did the Thracian Lyre obey, Forget their Madness and attend her song. The tunefull Shepherds on the dangerous rocks Forsake their Kinds and leave their bleating Flocks, And throw their tender Reeds away, As soon as e'er her softer Pipe begins to play.

No barren subject no unfertile soil Can prove ungratefull to her Muses Toil, Warm'd with the Heavenly influence of her Brain, Upon the dry and sandy plain, On craggy Mountains cover'd o'er with Snow, The blooming Rose and fragrant Jes'min grow: When in her powerfull Poetick hand, She waves the mystick wand, Streight from the hardest Rocks the sweetest numbers flow.

IV.

Hail bright Urania! Erato hail! Melpomene, Polymnia, Euterpe, hail! And all ye blessed powers that inspire The Heaven-born Soul with intellectual fire; Pardon my humble and unhallow'd Muse, If she too great a veneration use, And prostrate at your best lov'd Darling's feet Your holy Fane with sacred honour greet: Her more than Pythian Oracles are so divine, You sure not onely virtually are Within the glorious Shrine, But you your very selves must needs be there. The Delian Prophet did at first ordain, That even the mighty Nine should reign, In distant Empires of different Clime; And if in her triumphant Throne, She rules those learned Regions alone, The fam'd Pyerides are out-done by her omnipotent Rhime. In proper Cells her large capacious Brain The images of all things does contain, As bright almost as were th'Ideas laid, In the last model e'er the World was made.

And though her vast conceptions are so strong, The powerfull eloquence of her charming tongue Does, clear as the resistless beams of day, To our enlightned Souls the noble thoughts convey; Well chosen, well appointed, every word Does its full force and natural grace afford; And though in her rich treasury, Confus'd like Elements great Numbers lie, When they their mixture and proportion take, What beauteous forms of every kind they make! Such was the Language God himself infus'd, And such the style our great Forefather us'd, From one large stock the various sounds he fram'd, And every Species of the vast Creation nam'd. While most of our dull Sex have trod In beaten paths of one continued Road, Her skilfull and well manag'd Muse Does all the art and strength of different paces use: For though sometimes with slackned force, She wisely stops her fleetest course, That slow but strong Majestick pace Shews her the swiftest steed of all the chosen Race.

V.

Well has she sung the learned Daphnis praise, And crown'd his Temples with immortal Bays; And all that reade him must indeed confess, Th' effects of such a cause could not be less. For ne'er was (at the first bold heat begun) So hard and swift a Race of glory run, But yet her sweeter Muse did for him more, Than he himself or all Apollo's sons before;

For shou'd th' insatiate lust of time, Root out the memory of his sacred Rhime. The polish'd armour in that single Page Wou'd all the tyranny and rage Of Fire and Sword defie, For Daphnis can't but with Astraea die. And who can dark oblivion fear, That is co-eval with her mighty Works and Her? Ah learned Chymist, 'tis she onely can By her almighty arm, Within the pretious salt collect, The true essential form, And can against the power of death protect Not onely Herbs and Trees, but raise the buried Man.

VI.

Wretched O Enone's inauspicious fate, That she was born so soon, or her blest Muse so late! Cou'd the poor Virgin have like her complain'd, She soon her perjur'd Lover had regain'd, In spight of all the fair Seducers tears, In spight of all her Vows and Prayers; Such tender accents through his Soul had ran, As wou'd have pierc'd the hardest heart of Man. At every Line the fugitive had swore By all the Gods, by all the Powers divine, My dear OEnone, I'll be ever thine, And ne'er behold the flattering Grecian more. How does it please the learned Roman's Ghost (The sweetest that th' Elysian Field can boast) To see his noble thoughts so well exprest, So tenderly in a rough Language drest;

Had she there liv'd, and he her Genius known, So soft, so charming, and so like his own, One of his Works had unattempted been, And Ovid ne'er in mournfull Verse been seen; Then the great Caesar to the Scythian plain, From Rome's gay Court had banish'd him in vain, Her plenteous Muse had all his wants supplied, And he had flourish'd in exalted pride: No barbarous Getans had deprav'd his tongue, For he had onely listned to her Song, Not as an exile, but proscrib'd by choice, Pleas'd with her Form, and ravish'd with her voice. His last and dearest part of Life, Free from noise and glorious strife, He there had spent within her softer Armes, And soon forgot the Royal Julia's charmes.

VII.

Long may she scourge this mad rebellious Age, And stem the torrent of Fanatick rage, That once had almost overwhelm'd the Stage. O'er all the Land the dire contagion spread, And e'en Apollo's Sons apostate fled: But while that spurious race imploy'd their parts In studying strategems and subtile arts, To alienate their Prince's Subjects hearts, Her Loyal Muse still tun'd her loudest strings, To sing the praises of the best of Kings. And, O ye sacred and immortal Gods, From the blest Mansions of your bright aboads, To the first Chaos let us all be hurld, E'er such vile wretches should reform the World,

That in all villany so far excell, If they in sulphurous flames must onely dwell, The Cursed Caitiffs hardly merit Hell. Were not those vile Achitophels so lov'd, (The blind, the senseless and deluded Crowd) Did they but half his Royal Vertues know, But half the blessings which to him they owe, His long forbearance to provoking times, And God-like mercy to the worst of crimes: Those murmuring Shimei's, even they alone, Cou'd they bestow a greater than his own, Wou'd from a Cottage raise him to a Throne.

VIII.

See, ye dull Scriblers of this frantick Age, That load the Press, and so o'erwhelm the Stage, That e'en the noblest art that e'er was known, As great as an Egyptian Plague is grown: Behold, ye scrawling Locusts, what ye've done, What a dire judgment is brought down, By your curst Dogrel Rhimes upon the Town; On Fools and Rebels hangs an equal Fate, And both may now repent too late, For the great Charter of your Wit as well as Trade is gone. Once more the fam'd Astraea's come; 'Tis she pronounc'd the fatal doom, And has restor'd it to the rightfull Heirs, Since Knowledge first in Paradise was theirs.

IX.

Never was Soul and Body better joyn'd, A Mansion worthy of so blest a Mind; See but the Shadow of her beauteous face, The pretious minitures of every Grace,

There one may still such Charms behold, That as Idolaters of old, The works of their own hands ador'd, And Gods which they themselves had made implor'd; Jove might again descend below, And, with her Wit and Beauty charm'd, to his own Image bow. But oh, the irrevocable doom of Nature's Laws! How soon the brightest Scene of Beauty draws! Alas, what's all the glittering Pride Of the poor perishing Creatures of a day, With what a violent and impetuous Tide, E'er their flow'd in their glories ebb away? The Pearl, the Diamond and Saphire must Be blended with the common Pebbles dust, And even Astraea with all her sacred store, Be wreckt on Death's inevitable Shore, Her Face ne'er seen and her dear Voice be heard no more. And wisely therefore e'er it was too late, She has revers'd the sad Decrees of Fate, And in deep Characters of immortal Wit, So large a memorandum's writ, That the blest memory of her deathless Name Shall stand recorded in the Book of Fame; When Towns inter'd in their own ashes lie, And Chronicles of Empires die, When Monuments like Men want Tombs to tell Where the remains of the vast ruines fell.