Art poems

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137

The First Anniversary Of The Government Under O.C.

© Andrew Marvell

Like the vain Curlings of the Watry maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking Weight does raise;
So Man, declining alwayes, disappears.
In the Weak Circles of increasing Years;

The Gallery

© Andrew Marvell

Clora come view my Soul, and tell
Whether I have contriv'd it well.
Now all its several lodgings lye
Compos'd into one Gallery;

A Poem Upon The Death Of O.C.

© Andrew Marvell

That Providence which had so long the care
Of Cromwell's head, and numbred ev'ry hair,
Now in its self (the Glass where all appears)
Had seen the period of his golden Years:

Last Instructions to a Painter

© Andrew Marvell

Here, Painter, rest a little, and survey
With what small arts the public game they play.
For so too Rubens, with affairs of state,
His labouring pencil oft would recreate.

An Horatian Ode Upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland

© Andrew Marvell

The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.

The Unfortunate Lover

© Andrew Marvell

Alas, how pleasant are their dayes
With whom the Infant Love yet playes!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By Fountains cool, and Shadows green.

Tom May's Death

© Andrew Marvell

As one put drunk into the Packet-boat,
Tom May was hurry'd hence and did not know't.
But was amaz'd on the Elysian side,
And with an Eye uncertain, gazing wide,

Moses In The Bulrushes. A Sacred Drama

© Hannah More

Hebrew Woman.
Jochebed, Mother of Moses.
Miriam, his Sister.

A Letter To Doctor Ingelo, then With My Lord Whitlock, Amba

© Andrew Marvell

Quid facis Arctoi charissime transfuga coeli,
Ingele, proh sero cognite, rapte cito?
Num satis Hybernum defendis pellibus Astrum,
Qui modo tam mollis nec bene firmus eras?

Upon Appleton House, to My Lord Fairfax

© Andrew Marvell

Within this sober Frame expect
Work of no Forrain Architect;
That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
And Forrests did to Pastures hew;

Like the vain curlings of the watery maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking weight does raise,
So Man, declining always, disappears
In the weak circles of increasing years;
And his short tumults of themselves compose,
While flowing Time above his head does close.