Poems on several occasions and translations wherein the first and second books of Virgil's Æneis are attempted in English / by Tho. Fletcher ...

To Thomas Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells staying at Winton, after his promotion to that See. 1685.

AS when of old on Ida's verdant Plain Paris the young, the gay, the charming Swain, Long with success had reign'd the Shepherds Lord, And their pride; prais'd by all, by all ador'd,

At length acknowledge mighty Priam's Son, And warn'd to leave his Cottage for a Throne, Forc'd to be great, and ravish'd to a Crown, Long doubtful thro' the pensive Shades he roves, Loth to forsake his dear familiar Groves, And all his tender flocks, and all his tender loves. Oft to the Nymphs and Swains he bids adieu; Oft tells his Case, and how he's forc'd to go. The Nymphs and Swains as much concern'd as he, Weep, doubting whether 'tis for Grief or Joy. To lose their darling Lord unwilling they, Yet dare not bid him from a Kingdom stay. While diff'rent Passions thus distort their mind, In their rack'd breast a doleful Joy they find, And blame the Fates for being too severely kind. So you, Great Sir, our Joy, our Pride, our — (For your exalted State fain would I frame Some more expressive, more endearing N••me;

But ah! you were so much our All before, That now you are not, nor can e're be more) To your Success what Tribute do we owe! We would be grateful, but we know not how. To shew our Joy were but to bid you go; Such farewels are to parting Tyrants due, To base, dull men, and all who are unlike to you. Yet can we grieve, and wish you always here? Meer Envy that, and no less Madness were, Than to wish our Friends, who with th'Immortal reign Themselves Immortal, here on Earth again. Yet you vouchsafe to bless us with your stay, And slowly hence even to Glory ••ly: But smiling thro' these peaceful Shades you glide, Like some calm Ghost where all his Treasure's hid. You, who had largely clear'd your Debts before, Now out of Charity t'o'repay the score.

Thrice happy Bath to you with joy does bow, Much to Great Charles she ows, and much to you, Nor does she more to her own Blad••d owe. She now shall feel those strong Meridian Rays Of that bright Sun which in our East did rise. But tho he shine with greater lustre there, Yet were his beams more close and tender here. For still the Sun most vital warmth bestows On that blest Earth, from which himself arose. Nor shall this Age alone your Glory know, But ev'n Posterity shall boast of you. When future times shall Wickham's off spring count, Who did by steps the Seat of Honour mount, Then, then shall you, and only you, be found, Who reach'd a Mitre from so low a ground. When others oft••n pitch'd an•• stop'd for ease, At one bold flight you gain'd the mighty Space.

Thus all e'en the Uninteress'd admire The glorious height you've reach'd, and with you high'r. Full Tides of Joy all shores and Channels fill, And on each Brow sits a contented smile. Only we feel a dull, imperfect Joy, Fear'd absence present Comforts does allay. Yet why should we by discontented moan Idly disturb your pleasures, and our own? For thus Rome lost (if that a loss could be) Her Founder to be made a Deity.