A Collection of poems written upon several occasions by several persons

THE TEMPLE OF DEATH.

IN those cold Climates where the Sun appears Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears, A dreadful Vale lies in a Desart Isle, On which indulgent Heaven did never smile. There a vast grove of aged Cypress Trees, Which none without an awful horror sees,

Into its wither'd arms depriv'd of leaves, Whole flocks of ill-presaging Birds receives; Poysons are all the plants the soyl will bear, And Winter is the only season there. Millions of graves cover the spacious field, And springs of blood a thousand Rivers yield, Whose streams opprest with carcases and bones, Instead of gentle murmurs, pour forth groans. Within this vale a famous Temple stands, Old as the Universe which it commands; Round is its figure, and four Iron Gates Divide the World by order of the Fates. There come in crowds, doomd to one common grave, The young, the old, the Monarch, and the Slave. Old age, and pains which mankind most deplores, Are faithful keepers of those sacred doors; All clad in mournful blacks, which also load The sacred walls of this obscure aboad,

And Tapers of a pitchy substance made, With clouds of smoak increase the dismal shade. A Monster void of Reason and of Sight, The Goddess is that sways this Realm of Night. Her Power extends o're all things that have breath, A cruel Tyrant, and her name is Death. The fairest object of our wondring eyes Was newly offer'd up her sacrifice; Th' adjoyning places where the Altar stood Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's blood. When sad Melintus, whose unhappy flame Is known by all that ere converst with fame; His mind possest with fury and despair, Within the sacred Temple made this prayer; Great Deity! who in thy hands dost bear That rusty Scepter which poor mortals fear, Who wanting eyes thy self respectest none, And neither spar'st the Lawrel nor the Crown.

Oh! thou whom all mankind in vain withstands, Each of whose blood must one day stain thy hands. Oh, thou that every eye which sees the light, Closest again in an eternal night, Open thy ears, and hearken to my grief, To which thy power alone can give relief; I come not hither to prolong my fate, But wish my wretched life a shorter date; And that the Earth would in its bowels hide A soul which Heaven invades on every side; That from the sight of day I might remove, And might have nothing left me but my love. Thou only comforter of minds opprest, The Port where wearied spirits are at rest; Conducter to Illisium, take my life, My brest I offer to thy sacred knife: So just a grace deny not, nor despise A willing, though a worthless, sacrifice.

Others their frail and mortal state forgot, Before thy altars are not to be brought Without constraint; the noise of dying rage, Heaps of the slain of every sex and age, The blade all reaking in the gore it shed, With sever'd heads and arms consus'dly spread, The rapid flames of a perpetual fire, The groans of wretches ready to expire; This Tragick Scene makes them in terror live, Till that is forc't which they should freely give; Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have, Their fears eclipse the glory of their grave. Before thy face they make undecent moan, And feel an hundred deaths in fearing one: The flame becomes unhallowed in their brest, And he a Murtherer who was a Priest; His hands profan'd in breaking Natures chain, By which the body does the soul detain;

But against me thy strongest forces call, And on my head let all the tempest fall; No shrinking back shall any weakness shew, And calmly ile expect the fatal blow. My limbs no trembling, in my mind no fear, Plaints in my mouth, nor in my eyes a tear. Think not that time, our wonted sure relief, That universal cure for every grief, Whose aid so many Lovers oft have found, With like success can ever heal my wound: Too weak's the power of Nature, or of Art, Nothing but death can ease a broken heart. And that thou mayst behold my helpless state, Learn the extreamest rigour of my fate; Amidst th' innumerable beauteous Train Paris, the Queen of Cities, does contain The fairest Town, the greatest, and the best, So fair Almeria shin'd above the rest.

From her bright eyes to feel a hopeless flame, Was of our youth the most ambitious aim; Her chains were marks of honour to the brave, She made a Prince when e're she made a Slave. Love, under whose tyrannick power I groan, Shew'd me this Beauty ere 'twas fully blown; Her doubtful hand, and her unpractis'd look, Their first assurance from my conquest took; By wounding me she learnt the fatal art, And the first sigh she had was from my heart. My eyes with tears wetting her snowy arms, Render'd the tribute due unto her charms; But as I soonest of all mortals paid My vows, and to her beauty altars made, So amongst all those slaves that sigh'd in vain, She thought me only worthy of her chain. Loves heavy burden my submissive heart Indur'd not long before she bore her part,

My violent flame melted her frozen brest, And in soft sighs her pity she exprest; Her gentle voice alaid my raging pains, And her fait hands sustain'd me in my chains: Tears from her eyes attended on my moan, And they lookt kindly upon me alone. My hopes and dangers were less mine then hers, Those fill'd her soul with joyes, and these with tears. Our hearts united had the same desires, And both alike burn'd with impatient fires. Too faithful memory, I give thee leave Thy wretched master kindly to deceive: Make me not once possessor of her charms, Let me not find her languish in my arms: Past joyes are now my cruel fancies theames, Make all my happy nights appear but dreams. Let not those scenes before my eyes be brought, But hide her love from my tormenting thought;

And in its place disdainful beauty shew, If thou would'st not be cruel, make her so; And something to abate my deep despair, Oh! let her seem less gentle, or less fair. But I in vain flatter my wounded mind, Never was Nymph so lovely, or so kind. No cold repulses my desires supprest, I seldom sigh'd but on Almeria's brest. Of all the passions which mankind destroy, I only felt excess of love and joy: Numberless pleasures charm'd my sence, and they Were as my love, without the least allay: As pure, alas, but not so sure to last, For, like a pleasant dream they all are past. From Heaven her beauty like fierce lightning came, which breaks through darkness with a glorious flame A while it shines, a while our sight it chears, But soon the short-liv'd comfort disappears,

And thunder follows, whose resistless rage None can withstand, and nothing can asswage. So oft the light which those bright flashes gave, Serves to conduct us only to our grave. When I had first begun loves joyes to taste, Those full rewards for fears and dangers past, A fever seiz'd her, and to nothing brought The richest work that ever Nature wrought. All things below, alas, uncertain stand, The firmest Rocks are plac't upon the Sand: Under this Law both Kings and Crowns must bend, For no beginning is without an end. A sacrifice to time fate dooms us all, And at the Tyrants feet we dayly fall; Time, whose bold hand alike does bring to dust Mankind, and Gods in which mankind does trust; Though now her wasted spirits begin to faint, Her patience ties her tongue from all complaints,

And in her heart, as in a Fort remains, But yet at last yields t' her resistless pains. Thus while the Fever amorous of his prey, Through all her Veins makes his delightful way; Her Fate's like semile's, the flames destroy That Beauty they too eagerly enjoy. Her charming face is in its Spring decay'd, Pale grows the Roses, and the Lillies fade. Her skin has lost that lustre, which surpast The Sun's, and did deserve as long to last; Her eyes, which us'd to pierce the hardest hearts, Are now disarm'd of all their flames and Darts; Those Stars now heavily and slowly move, And sorrow Triumphs in the Throne of Love. The Fever every moment more prevails, Its rage her body feels, and Tongue bewails: She whose disdain so many Lovers prove, Sighs now for Torment, as they sigh for Love,

And with loud crys, which rend the Neighb'ring air, Wounds my sad heart, and wakens my despair. Both gods and men I charge now with my loss, And wild with grief, my thoughts each other cross: My heart and tongue labour in both extreams, That sends up humble Prayers, while this blasphemes. I ask their help whose Power I desie, And mingle Sacriledge with Piety. But that which do's still more perplex my mind, To love her truly, I must seem unkind; So unconcern'd a face my sorrow wears, I still restrain unruly floods of tears: My Eyes and Tongue put on dissembling forms, I shew a calmness in the midst of storms: I seem to hope, when all my hopes are gone, And almost dead with grief, discover none. But who can long deceive a loving eye, Or with dry eyes behold his Mistress dye?

When Reason had with all its terrours brought Th' approaching danger nearer to my thought, Off on a sudden fell the forc't disguise, And shew'd a sighing heart in weeping eyes, My apprehensions now no more confin'd, Expos'd my sorrows, and betray'd my mind. The fair afflicted, Soan perceives my tears, Explains my sighs, and thence concludes my fears, With sad presages of her hopeless case, She reads her Fate in my dejected face, Then feels my Torment, and neglects her own, While I am sensible of hers alone; Each does the others burden kindly bear, I fear her Death, and she bewails my fear: Although we suffer under Fortunes darts, 'Tis those of Love alone which reach our hearts. Mean while the Fever mocks at all our fears, Grows by our sighs, and rages at our Tears;

Those vain effects of our as vain desire, Like Wind and Oyl increase the Fatal fire. Almeria feeling th' unjust destinies About to shut her lips, and close her eyes, Weeping, in mine put her fair trembling hand, And with these words I scarce could understand; Her passion in a dying voyce exprest Half; and her sighs, alas, made out the rest. 'Tis past, this pang Nature forsakes the strife, Thou must thy Mistress lose, and I my Life. I dye, but dying thine, the Fates may prove Their Conquest over me, but not my Love; Thy Memory, my Glory, and my pain, In spight of Death it self, shall still remain. Ah! Dear Melintus, my hard fate denies That hope is the last thing which in us dyes; From my griev'd brest all those soft thoughts are fled, And love survives, although my hope is dead;

I yield my life, but keep my passion yet, And can all thoughts but of Melintus quit. My flame increases as my strength decayes, Death, that puts out the light, the heat do's raise, Which leaves me not, though I from hence remove, I lose my Lover, but I keep my Love. The sigh which sent forth that last tender word, Up towards the Heavens like a bright meteor soar'd, And the kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms, Falls cold and breathless in her Lovers Arms, Which shews, since Death deny'd him then relief, That 'tis in vain men hope to dye with grief. Goddess, that now my fate has understood, Spare but my tears, and freely take my blood, Here let me end the story of my cares, My grief it self enough the rest declares. Thou seest by all my misery thus display'd, Whether I ought not to implore thy aid,

Thus to survive a guilt upon me draws, And my sad wishes have too just a cause. Come then, my only hope, in every place, Thou visitest, men tremble at thy face, And fear thy name, once let thy fatal hand Destroy a Swain, that doth the blow demand. Vouchsafe thy Dart, I need not one of those With which thou dost unwilling Kings depose, Thy weakest my desir'd release will bring, And free my Soul already on her wing.