Sometimes on wings of thought I seem on high, } As men in sleep, tho' motionless they lie, } Hedg'd by a dream, believe they mount and fly: } So witches some inchanted wand bestride, } And think they thro' the airy regions ride, } Where fancy is both trav'ller, way and guide: } Then straight I grow a strange exalted thing, And equal in conceit at least a king: As the poor drunkard, when wine stums his brains, Anointed with that liquor, thinks he reigns; Bewitch'd by these delusions, 'tis I write, (The tricks some pleasant devil plays in spite) And when I'm in the freakish trance, which I, Fond silly wretch, mistake for ecstacy, I find all former resolutions vain, And thus recant them, and make new again. "What was't I rashly vow'd? shall ever I Quit my beloved mistress, Poetry? Thou sweet beguiler of my lonely hours, Which thus glide unperceiv'd, with silent course: Thou gentle spell, which undisturb'd dost keep My breast, and charm intruding care asleep: They say thou'rt poor, and un-endow'd, what tho'? For thee, I this vain, worthless world forego: Let wealth and honour be for fortune's slaves, The alms of fools, and prize of crafty knaves: To me thou art, whate'er th'ambitious crave, And all that greedy misers want or have. In youth or age, in travel or at home; Here, or in town, at London, or at Rome; Rich, or a beggar, free, or in the Fleet, What'er my fate is, 'tis my fate to write."' Oldham's talent, depending upon masculine sense and vigour of expression rather than upon the more ethereal graces of poetry, was of the kind to expand and mellow by age and practice. Had he lived longer he would undoubtedly have left a name conspicuous in English literature. As it is, he can only be regarded as a bright satellite revolving at a respectful distance around the all-illumining orb of Dryden. Before passing to Marvell and Butler, the only two really original poets after Dryden besides the veterans Cowley and Waller, who belong to the preceding period, it will be convenient to despatch a group of minor bards, whose inclusion in the standard collections of poetry, involving memoirs by a master of biography, has given them more celebrity than they in most instances deserve. [Sidenote: Lord Rochester (1647-1680).]