A wiser founder, and a nohler plan, O sons of Alfred, were for you assign'd: Bring to that birthright but an equal mind, And no sublimer lot will Fate reserve for man. ODE X. TO THE MUSE. QUEEN of my songs, harmonious maid, Say, goddess, can the festal board, To win thee back with some celestial strain?" O powerful strain, O sacred soul! His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself, returns. Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow her alone. ODE XI. ON LOVE. TO A FRIEND. No, foolish youth-to virtuous fame Command thy footsteps from the crowd, By thought, by dangers, and by toils, The flowery pomp of Ease adorn: And Love's reward with gaudy Sloth is bought. Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays, And heard from many a zealous breast, The pleasing tale of Beauty's praise In Wisdom's lofty language dress'd; Of Beauty, powerful to impart Each finer sense, each comelier art, And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart. If then, from Love's deccit secure, Attend, while that harmonious tongue Each bosom, each desire, commands: Apollo's lute by Hermes strung, And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands, Attend. I feel a force divine, O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine. Yet, conscious of the dangerous charm, Nor lull my reason's watchful sway. And thy tongue faulters; and thy colour flies. So soon again to meet the fair? So pensive all this absent hour? -O yet, unlucky youth, beware, While yet to think is in thy power. In vain with friendship's flattering name Thy passion veils its inward shame; Friendship the treacherous fuel of thy flame! Once I remember, new to Love, And dreading his tyrannic chain, I sought a gentle maid, to prove What peaceful joys in friendship reign; Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day, One generous woman's real mind: Each night with unknown cares possess'd, Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd. Fool that I was!-And now, even now An hour unsays it all again. O friend!-when Love directs her eyes To pierce where every passion lies, Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise? ODE XII. TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BART. BEHOLD, the Balance in the sky And the bare pastures Pan resigns. He binds his oxen to the plough, And wide his future harvest throws. Now, London's busy confines round, Debate their dress, reform their airs. Say, what can now the country boast, Champions for George's legal right? Each bold Wessexian 'squire and knight? I doubt it much; and guess at least That when the day, which made us free, Shall next return, that sacred feast Thou better may'st observe with me. In that glad day's triumphal strain; Of James or his ignoble reign. Then, while the Gascon's fragrant wine Who bade the chief, the patriot rise; From Belgium to her saviour son) Her laws defac'd, her shrines o'erthrown. He came. The tyrant from our shore, And to eternal exile bore Pontific rage and vassal dread. There sunk the mouldering Gothic reign: New years came forth, a liberal train, Call'd by the people's great decree. That day, my friend, let blessings crown: -Fill, to the demigod's renown From whom thou hast that thou art free. Then, Drake, (for wherefore should we part Fair health, glad fortune, will we deal. For so it is. Thy stubborn breast, While I, a true and loyal swain, Through all the varying seasons own. ODE XIII. ON LYRIC POETRY. I. ONCE more I join the Thespian choir, Admit me to thy powerful strain- I see Anacreon smile and sing, His silver tresses breathe perfume; Let me the wanton pomp enjoy, Broke from the fetters of his native land, Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse and a threatening hand The Lesbian patriot' smiles the sounding chords: Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye curs'd of gods and free-born men, Ye murderers of the laws, Though now ye glory in your lust, Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause. II. But lo, to Sappho's melting airs Descends the radiant queen of love: She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distress'd? Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast! Say, flies he?-Soon he shall pursue: Shuns he thy gifts?-He soon shall give: Slights he thy sorrows?-He shall grieve, And soon to all thy wishes bow. But, O Melpomene, for whom Awakes thy golden shell again? For some there are, whose mighty frame While the dim raven beats her weary wings, And clamours far below.-Propitious Muse, While I so late unlock thy purer springs, And breathe whate'er thy ancient airs infuse, Wilt thou for Albion's sons around (Ne'er hadst thou audience more renown'd) Thy charming arts employ, As when the winds from shore to shore Through Greece thy lyre's persuasive language bore, Till towns and isles and seas return'd the vocal joy? III. Yet then did Pleasure's lawless throng, Nor let thy strings one accent move, And Heaven's unerring throne approve. Queen of the lyre, in thy retreat The fairest flowers of Pindus glow; The vine aspires to crown thy seat, And myrtles round thy laurel grow: Which mortal tribes were born to prove; The ocean swells, the billows move. When Midnight listens o'er the slumbering Earth, To her of old by Jove was given To judge the various deeds of Earth and Heaven; 'Twas thine by gentle arts to win us to her sway. IV. Oft as, to well-earn'd ease resign'd, I quit the maze where Science toils, Do thou refresh my yielding mind With all thy gay, delusive spoils, But, O indulgent! come not nigh The busy steps, the jealous eye Of wealthy Care or gainful Age; Whose barren souls thy joys disdain, And hold as foes to Reason's reign Whome'er thy lovely works engage. When Friendship and when letter'd Mirth There let the Sapphic lute be strung. But when from Envy and from Death to claim Of Liberty my genius gives command, Conscious of powers she never knew, ODE XIV. TO THE HON. CHARLES TOWNSHEND: FROM THE COUNTRY. SAY, Townshend, what can Loudon boast And met the western wind? Oh! knew'st thou how the balmy air, Oft I look'd forth, and oft admir'd; And chide my tardy stay." But, ah in vain my restless feet Which knew their forms of old: Whether to nurse some infant oak Such rites, which they with Spring renew, The eyes of Care can never view; And care hath long been mine: And hence offended with their guest, Since grief of love my soul oppress'd, They hide their toils divine. But soon shall thy enlivening tongue Beneath yon Dryad's lonely shade A rustic altar shall be paid, Of turf with laurel fram'd: And thou the inscription wilt approve; "This for the peace which, lost by Love, By Friendship was reclaim'd." ODE XV. TO THE EVENING STAR. TO NIGHT retir'd the queen of Heaven O Hesper! while the starry throng To stoop to mortal sounds. So may the bridegroom's genial strain Thee still invoke to shine: So may the bride's unmarried train To Hymen chant their flattering vow, Still that his lucky torch may glow With lustre pure as thine. Far other vows must I prefer And lo! from thence, in quest I roam Propitious send thy golden ray, To them, by many a grateful song Nor seldom, where the beachen boughs That roofless tower invade, We come while her enchanting Muse The radiant Moon above us held: Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd, She fled the solemn shade. But bark! I hear her liquid tone. See the green space: on either hand Enlarg'd it spreads around: See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead, Enclos'd in woods profound. From Hampstead's airy summit me, Before the Sun, the anointed head. That evening's awful shade. Deem not I call thee to deplore The sacred martyr of the day, By fast and penitential lore To purge our ancient guilt away. For this, on humble faith I rest That still our advocate, the priest, 1 Aquarius. From heavenly wrath will save the land; Nor ask what rites our pardon gain, Nor how his potent sounds restrain The thunderer's lifted hand. No, Hardinge: peace to church and state! That evening, let the Muse give law: While I anew the theme relate Which my first youth enamour'd saw. Then will I oft explore thy thought, What to reject which Locke hath taught, What to pursue in Virgil's lay: Till Hope ascends to loftiest things, Nor envies demagogues or kings Their frail and vulgar sway. O! vers'd in all the human frame, To Grecian purity chastise: And grave assent with glad applause ; To paint the story of the soul, And Plato's visions to control By Verulamian 2 laws. ODE XVII. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. M.DCC.XLVII. COME then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal Glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure, So can Fancy's dream rejoice, So conciliate Reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice. If to spurn at noble praise Be the passport to thy Heaven, Follow thou those gloomy ways; No such law to me was given, Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me Faring like my friends before me; Nor an holier place desire Than Timoleon's arms acquire, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. ODE XVIII. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON. M.DCC. XLVII. I. THE wise and great of every clime, 2 Verulam gave one of his titles to Francis Bacon, Novum Organum. Such was the Chian father's strain To many a kind domestic train, Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul: With equal bounty to requite, He struck his magic strings; And pour'd spontaneous numbers forth, And seiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth, And fill'd their musing hearts with vast heroic things. Now oft, where happy spirits dwell, Who first the race with freedom fir'd; |