The Temple of Death, Art of Poetry, Duel of the Stags, etc (1695)/The Temple of Death
THE
TEMPLE
OF
DEATH.
By the Earl of Mulgrave.
A Translation out of FRENCH.
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 thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,
Which none without an awful horrour 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.
Unwillingly, and hides his face in tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a Desart Isle,
On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.
There a thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,
Which none without an awful horrour 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 World it self, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates
Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.
There Come in Crouds, doom'd 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 Abode,
And Tapers, of a pitchy substance made,
With Clouds of smoak increase the dismal Shade.
Old as the World it self, which it commands;
Round is its figure, and four Iron-Gates
Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.
There Come in Crouds, doom'd 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 Abode,
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, who sways this Realm of Night.
Her Power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A Cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death.
The fairest Object of our wond'ring Eyes
Was newly offer'd up her Sacrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the Altar stood,
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's Blood.
When griev'd Orontes, whose unhappy flame
Is known to all that e'er converse with Fame;
His mind possest by Fury and Despair,
Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer:
Great Deity! Who in thy hands do'st bear
That rusty Scepter, which poor Mortals fear;
Who wanting Eyes, thy self respectest none,
And neither spares the Laurel, nor the Crown!
Oh, thou whom all Mankind in vain withstands,
Each of whose Blood must one day stain thy Hands!
Oh, thou who every Eye, which sees the Light,
Closest again in an eternal Night!
Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief,
To which thy only Power 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 Wretch, whom Heaven invades on every side:
That from the sight of Day I could 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 Elyzium! Take my Life;
My Breast I offer to thy Sacred Knife:
So just a Grace refuse 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 reeking in the gore it shed,
With sever'd Heads and Arms confus'dly spread,
The Rapid Flames of a perpetual fire,
The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:
This Tragick Scene makes them in Terrour Live,
Till that is forc'd, 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 a hundred Deaths in fearing one;
The flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breast,
And he a Murtherer, who was a Priest;
His Hands profan'd in breaking Nature's 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 I'll expect the fatal blow;
My Limbs not 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.
The Goddess is, who sways this Realm of Night.
Her Power extends o'er all things that have breath,
A Cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death.
The fairest Object of our wond'ring Eyes
Was newly offer'd up her Sacrifice;
Th' adjoining places where the Altar stood,
Yet blushing with the fair Almeria's Blood.
When griev'd Orontes, whose unhappy flame
Is known to all that e'er converse with Fame;
His mind possest by Fury and Despair,
Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer:
Great Deity! Who in thy hands do'st bear
That rusty Scepter, which poor Mortals fear;
Who wanting Eyes, thy self respectest none,
And neither spares the Laurel, nor the Crown!
Oh, thou whom all Mankind in vain withstands,
Each of whose Blood must one day stain thy Hands!
Oh, thou who every Eye, which sees the Light,
Closest again in an eternal Night!
Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief,
To which thy only Power 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 Wretch, whom Heaven invades on every side:
That from the sight of Day I could 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 Elyzium! Take my Life;
My Breast I offer to thy Sacred Knife:
So just a Grace refuse 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 reeking in the gore it shed,
With sever'd Heads and Arms confus'dly spread,
The Rapid Flames of a perpetual fire,
The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:
This Tragick Scene makes them in Terrour Live,
Till that is forc'd, 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 a hundred Deaths in fearing one;
The flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breast,
And he a Murtherer, who was a Priest;
His Hands profan'd in breaking Nature's 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 I'll expect the fatal blow;
My Limbs not 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 largest, 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'er she made a Slave.
Love, under whose Tyrannick Power I groan,
Shew'd me this Beauty e'er 'twas fully blown;
Her tim'rous Charms, 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 moist'ning her snowy Arms,
Render'd the Tribute owing to her Charms:
But as I soonest of all Mortals paid
My Vows, and to her Beauty Altars made;
So among all those Slaves that sigh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my Chain.
Loves heavy burden, my Submissive Heart
Endur'd not long, before she bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen Breast,
And in soft Sighs her pity she exprest;
Her gentle Voice allay'd my raging Pains,
And her fair hands Sustain'd me in my Chains;
Even Tears of Pity waited on my moan,
And tender Looks were cast on me alone.
My hopes and dangers were less mine, than hers,
Those filled her Soul with Joys, and these with Fears
Our hearts united, had the same desires,
And both alike, burn'd in Impatient Fires.
Paris, the Queen of Cities, does contain,
The fairest Town, the largest, 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'er she made a Slave.
Love, under whose Tyrannick Power I groan,
Shew'd me this Beauty e'er 'twas fully blown;
Her tim'rous Charms, 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 moist'ning her snowy Arms,
Render'd the Tribute owing to her Charms:
But as I soonest of all Mortals paid
My Vows, and to her Beauty Altars made;
So among all those Slaves that sigh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my Chain.
Loves heavy burden, my Submissive Heart
Endur'd not long, before she bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen Breast,
And in soft Sighs her pity she exprest;
Her gentle Voice allay'd my raging Pains,
And her fair hands Sustain'd me in my Chains;
Even Tears of Pity waited on my moan,
And tender Looks were cast on me alone.
My hopes and dangers were less mine, than hers,
Those filled her Soul with Joys, and these with Fears
Our hearts united, had the same desires,
And both alike, burn'd in 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 Joys are now my Fancies mournful Theams;
Make all my happy Nights appear but Dreams;
Let not that Bliss before my Eyes be brought;
Oh! hide those Scenes from my tormenting Thought;
And in their 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 Breast;
Of all the Passions which Mankind destroy,
I only felt excess of Love and Joy:
Numberless Pleasures charm'd my Sense, and they
Were as my Love, without the least Allay.
As pure, alas, but not so sure to last,
For, like a pleasing Dream, they all are past.
From Heav'n her Beauty like fierce Light'ning came,
Which breaks through Darkness with its 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 only to conduct us to our Grave.
Thy wretched Master kindly to deceive;
Make me not once possessor of her Charms;
Let me not find her Languish in my Arms;
Past Joys are now my Fancies mournful Theams;
Make all my happy Nights appear but Dreams;
Let not that Bliss before my Eyes be brought;
Oh! hide those Scenes from my tormenting Thought;
And in their 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 Breast;
Of all the Passions which Mankind destroy,
I only felt excess of Love and Joy:
Numberless Pleasures charm'd my Sense, and they
Were as my Love, without the least Allay.
As pure, alas, but not so sure to last,
For, like a pleasing Dream, they all are past.
From Heav'n her Beauty like fierce Light'ning came,
Which breaks through Darkness with its 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 only to conduct us to our Grave.
When I had just begun Love's Joys 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 fix'd upon the Sand:
Under this Law both Kings and Kingdoms bend,
And no beginning is without an end.
A Sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all,
And at the Tyrant's Feet we daily fall:
Time, whose bold hand alike does bring to dust
Mankind, and all those Powers in which they trust.
(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 fix'd upon the Sand:
Under this Law both Kings and Kingdoms bend,
And no beginning is without an end.
A Sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all,
And at the Tyrant's Feet we daily fall:
Time, whose bold hand alike does bring to dust
Mankind, and all those Powers in which they trust.
Her wasted Spirits now begin to faint,
Yet Patience ties her Tongue from all Complaint,
And in her Heart, as in a Fort remains,
But yields at last to her resistless pains;
Thus, while the Fever am'rous 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 grow the Roses, and the Lilies 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 firmest hearts,
Are now disarm'd of all their Flames and Darts,
Those Stars now heavily and slowly move,
And Sickness 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 slighted Prayers, while this blasphemes:
I ask their help, whose malice I defie,
And mingle Sacriledge with Piety.
But that which does yet more perplex my mind,
To Love her truly, I must seem unkind:
So unconcern'd a Face my Sorrow wears,
I must 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 die?
When Passion had with all its terrours brought
Th' approaching danger nearer to my Thought,
Off on a sudden, fell the forc'd 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, Soon 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:
Though we thus suffer under Fortune's Darts,
'Tis only those of Love 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.
Yet Patience ties her Tongue from all Complaint,
And in her Heart, as in a Fort remains,
But yields at last to her resistless pains;
Thus, while the Fever am'rous 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 grow the Roses, and the Lilies 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 firmest hearts,
Are now disarm'd of all their Flames and Darts,
Those Stars now heavily and slowly move,
And Sickness 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 slighted Prayers, while this blasphemes:
I ask their help, whose malice I defie,
And mingle Sacriledge with Piety.
But that which does yet more perplex my mind,
To Love her truly, I must seem unkind:
So unconcern'd a Face my Sorrow wears,
I must 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 die?
When Passion had with all its terrours brought
Th' approaching danger nearer to my Thought,
Off on a sudden, fell the forc'd 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, Soon 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:
Though we thus suffer under Fortune's Darts,
'Tis only those of Love 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, then, feeling the Destinies
About to shut her Lips, and close her Eyes,
Weeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling Hand,
And with these words, I scarce could understand;
Her Passion in a dying Voice express'd
Half, and her Sighs, alas, made out the rest.
'Tis past; this pang, Nature gives o'er the strife;
Thou must thy Mistress Lose, and I my Life;
I die, 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 Orontes, my hard Fate denys
That hope is the last thing which in us dies:
From my griev'd Breast 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 Orontes quit;
My flame increases as my strength decays,
Death, which puts out the light, the heat does raise;
That still remains, 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 Heav'ns like a bright Meteor soar'd,
And the Kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms,
Fell cold and breathless in her Lover's Arms;
Which shews, since Death could deny him relief,
That 'tis in vain we hope to die with grief.
About to shut her Lips, and close her Eyes,
Weeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling Hand,
And with these words, I scarce could understand;
Her Passion in a dying Voice express'd
Half, and her Sighs, alas, made out the rest.
'Tis past; this pang, Nature gives o'er the strife;
Thou must thy Mistress Lose, and I my Life;
I die, 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 Orontes, my hard Fate denys
That hope is the last thing which in us dies:
From my griev'd Breast 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 Orontes quit;
My flame increases as my strength decays,
Death, which puts out the light, the heat does raise;
That still remains, 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 Heav'ns like a bright Meteor soar'd,
And the Kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms,
Fell cold and breathless in her Lover's Arms;
Which shews, since Death could deny him relief,
That 'tis in vain we hope to die with grief.
Goddess, who now my Fate has understood,
Spare but my Tears, and freely take my Blood;
Here let me end the Story of my Cares,
My Dismal Grief enough the rest declares.
Judge thou by all this Misery display'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy aid:
Thus to survive, reproaches on me draws,
And my sad wishes have too Just a Cause.
Spare but my Tears, and freely take my Blood;
Here let me end the Story of my Cares,
My Dismal Grief enough the rest declares.
Judge thou by all this Misery display'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy aid:
Thus to survive, reproaches on 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
Fall on a Swain, that does 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 can bring,
And free my Soul already on her wing.
But since all Prayers and Tears are vain, I'll try,
If, spite of thee, 'tis possible to dy.
Thou visitest, Men tremble at thy Face,
And fear thy Name; once let thy fatal hand
Fall on a Swain, that does 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 can bring,
And free my Soul already on her wing.
But since all Prayers and Tears are vain, I'll try,
If, spite of thee, 'tis possible to dy.