Abstract
Three short occasional pieces: a Latin-English epigram to Cromwell, a panegyric on Charles II’s marriage to the Portuguese infanta, and verses on Sydenham’s treatise on fevers; encomiastic poetry with no philosophical content.
Testo originale inglese · Delphi Classics, 2000 · pubblico dominio
Locke wrote this epigram at Christchurch, to which college he repaired in the year 1651, and whence he underwent that memorable expulsion concerning which Mr Fox observes, that it indicated some instinctive sagacity in the government of the time, which pointed out to them, even before he had made himself known to the world, the man who was destined to be the most successful adversary of superstition and tyranny. None of our Sovereigns have, like Cromwell, been honoured with poetical panegyrics by four such eminent authors as Milton, Dryden, Waller, and Locke.
Pax regit Augusti, quem vicit Julius orbem;
Ille sago factus clarior, ille toga.
Hos sua Roma vocat magnos, et numina credit:
Hic quod sit mundi victor, et ille quies.
Tu bellum et pacem populis das, unus utrisque
Major es: ipse orbem vincis, et ipse regis.
Non hominem e cœlo missum te credimus, unus
Sic poteras binos qui superare Deos?
A peaceful sway the great Augustus bore,
O’er what great Julius gain’d by arms before.
Julius was all with martial trophies crown’d,
Augustus for his peaceful arts renown’d.
Rome calls them great, and makes them deities;
That for his valour, this for his policies.
Thou, mighty prince, than both art greater far,
Who rule in peace that world you gain’d in war.
You sure from heaven a perfect hero fell,
Who thus alone two pagan gods excel.
From 1662. Domiduca Oxomensis (Oxford, 1662), sig. B 2V-3V — Locke’s poem is among 126 in this volume. See Letter 134. In this year King Charles II married Catherine of Braganza. The poem displays some of the characteristic sentiments of Restoration royalism, exhibited also in the Tracts on Government.
Crowns, Scepters, Thrones, and the whole state of Kings
With all the Pompe and Majesty it brings,
May give a luster to each outward part,
But cannot reach the soule, and warme the heart;
Such flames have no abode beneath the skies,
But in those little Heavens, a Princesse eyes.
Kings are Gods here, but yet as ’tis above,
There is no heaven where there is no Love.
When the first Man without a Rival stood
Possest of all, and all like him was good:
Heaven thought that All imperfect, till beside
‘T had made another Self, and given a Bride:
Empire, and Innocence were there; but yet
’Twas EVE made Man, and Paradise compleat.
So whatever Fruit our Eden can afford
Of Peace, or Glory to its mighty Lord,
Tho loyal Hearts labour to make his State,
As are their Wishes, or his Virtues great;
And the unruly brutish Herd doth pay
Due Homage, and again learn to obey:
Yet all our belt Endeavours for his Bliss,
Do perfect our own Happiness, not his.
That Work is Yours (Great Q U E E N) and that to You
We leave, which three whole Kingdoms could not do:
’Tis you must crown, and fill that Heart, the Fates
Meant the Controuler of the Western States.
A Heart so fram’d as if ‘twere made, and fit
Only for you, and all the World for it;
Whereof you could at distance make a Prize,
Without the common Method of the Eyes.
So rules great JOVE with Flames, whose Influence
Works without Aid or Notice of the Sense.
When on your CHARLES, from Home and Throne exil’d,
Fortune still frown’d, and all the Ladies smil’d;
Unmov’d with both, a direct Path he knew
To tread, to hidden Happiness and You.
So the, skill’d Pilot, when the Waves engage
To fink the Ship that plays upon their Rage;
If dark and threatning Clouds his Pole-star hide,
Regards not all that mine in Heaven beside;
A steddy Course by that Star lately steers,
Which no where, whilst the Tempest lasts, appears.
He saw, and flighted all the rest; but You
Were th’ undiscover’d World, his rich Peru,
Stor’d with those Mines of worth, which yet retain
The Golden Age, or bring it back again.
’Tis want of Worth calls for a cautious Eye
To scan each part, and Blemishes descry.
He’s fondly nice, that would be loth to come,
Unless h’had seen it, to Elysium.
He search’d the World, and view’d it every part,
But found all these too little for his Heart:
Two things, alone remain’d hid from his View
Could make him fully happy, Heaven and You:
Like Heaven you come, with Ravishments of Bliss,
Desir’d unknown, at once seen, and made his.
Febriles aestus, victumque ardoribus orbem
Flevit, non tantis par medicina malis.
Quum post mille artes, mediae tentamina curae,
Ardet adhuc febris; nec velit arte regi.
Praeda sumus flammis; solum hoc speramus ab igne,
Ut restet paucus, quern capit urna, cinis.
Dum quaerit medicus febris causamque, modumque,
Flammarum et tenebras, et sine luce faces;
Quas tractat patitur flammas, et febre calescens,
Corruit ipse suis victima rapta focis.
Qui tardos potuit morbos, artusque trementes,
Sistere, febrili se videt igne rapi.
Sic faber exesos Ailsit tibicine muros;
Dum trahit antiquas lenta ruina domos.
Sed si flamma vorax miseras incenderit aedes,
Unica flagrantes tunc sepelire salus,
Fit fuga, tectonicas nemo tunc invocat artes;
Cum perit artificis non minus usta domus.
Se tandem Sydenham febrisque scholaeque furori
Opponens, morbi quaerit, et artis opem.
Non temere incusat tectae putredinis ignes;
Nec fictus, febres qui fovet, humor erit.
Non bilem ille movet, nulla hic pituita; Salutis
Quae spes, si fallax ardeat intus aqua?
Nec doctas magno rixas ostentat hiatu,
Quis ipsis major febribus ardor inest.
Innocuas placide corpus jubet urere flammas,
Et justo rapidos temperat igne focos.
Quid febrim exstinguat, varius quid postulat usus,
Solari aegrotos, qua potes arte, docet
Hactenus Ipsa suum timuit natura calorem,
Dum aepe incerto, quo calet, igne perit:
Dum reparat tacitos male provida sanguinis ignes,
Praelusit busto, fit calor iste rogus.
Jam secura suas foveant praecordia flammas,
Quem natura negat, dat medicina modum.
Nec solum faciles compescit sanguinis aestus,
Dum dubia est inter spemque metumque salus;
Sed fatale malum domuit, quodque astra malignum
Credimus, iratam vel genuisse Stygem.
Extorsit Lachesi cultros, petisque venenum
Abetulit, et tantos non sinit esse metus.
Quis tandem arte nova domitam mitescere pestem
Credat, et antiquas ponere posse minas?
Post tot mille neces, cumulataque funera busto,
Victa jacet, parvo vulnere, dira lues.
Aetheriae quanquam spargunt contagia flammae,
Quicquid inest istis ignibus, ignis erit.
The Biographies
John Locke by Godfrey Kneller, 1697