Pan danc'd their measure with the sylvan throng: But that thy song Was proud to unfold What thy base rulers trembled to behold; Are there, approv'd of later times, No, not the strains that Mincius heard, Dare to the Muse's ear aspire ; Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre, With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful task But here, where Freedom's equal throne And each the power, that rules him, shares; Bid public praise farewell: Let him to fitter climes remove, Far from the hero's and the patriot's love, And lull mysterious monks to slumber in their cell. O Hastings, not to all Can ruling Heaven the same endowments lend: Yet still doth Nature to her offspring call, That to one general weal their different powers they bend, Unenvious. Thus alone, though strains divine Though with new honours the patrician's line They win the suffrage of impartial Fame. The poet's name He best shall prove, Whose lays the soul with noblest passions move. But thee, O progeny of heroes old, Thee to severer toils thy fate requires: The fate which form'd thee in a chosen mould, Though Gaul's proud genius sank beneath his hand. V. From rich domains and subject farms, Where, long foretold, the people reigns: Where each a vassal's humble heart disdains; And judgeth what he sees; and, as he judgeth, wills. Here be it thine to calm and guide The swelling democratic tide; To watch the state's uncertain frame, And baffle Faction's partial aim: But chiefly, with determin'd zeal, To quell that servile band, who kneel To Freedom's banish'd foes; That monster, which is daily found Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound; Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counsel knows. 'Tis highest Heaven's command, That guilty aims should sordid paths pursue; That what ensnares the heart should maim the Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail The sacred orchard which imbowers his gate, And show to strangers passing down the vale, Where Ca'ndish, Booth, and Osborne sate; When, bursting from their country's chain, Even in the midst of deadly arms, Of papal snares and lawless arms, I come, the ancient founder of the stage, They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign. To crown the rivals of your country's fame. VI. This reign, these laws, this public care, Which social Good inspires; Where men, for this, assault a throne, Each adds the common welfare to his own; And each unconquer'd heart the strength of all acquires. Say, was it thus, when late we view'd Our fields in civil blood imbrued? When Fortune crown'd the barbarous host, And half the astonish'd isle was lost? Did one of all that vaunting train, Who dare affront a peaceful reign, Durst one in arms appear? Durst one in counsels pledge his life? Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife? Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer? Yet, Hastings, these are they Who challenge to themselves thy country's love; The true; the constant: who alone can weigh, What Glory should demand, or Liberty approve! But let their works declare them. Thy free powers, The generous powers of thy prevailing mind, Not for the tasks of their confederate hours, Lewd brawls and lurking slander, where design'd. Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise Oft nobly sways Ingenuous youth: But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth, Praise is reproach. Eternal God alone For mortals fixeth that sublime award. He, from the faithful records of his throne, Bids the historian and the bard Dispose of honour and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave, For lessons to the multitude unborn. BOOK THE SECOND. ODE I. THE REMONSTRANCE OF SHAKSPEARE: SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, WHILE THE FRENCH COMEDIANS WERE ACTING BY SUBSCRIPTION. M.DCC.XLIX. Ir, yet regardful of your native land, Old Shakspeare's tongue you deign to understand, Lo! from the blissful bowers where Heaven rewards Instructive sages and unblemish'd bards, What, though the footsteps of my devious Muse The measur'd walks of Grecian art refuse? Or though the frankness of my hardy style Mock the nice touches of the critic's file? Yet, what my age and climate held to view, Impartial I survey'd and fearless drew. And say, ye skilful in the human heart, Who know to prize a poet's noblest part, What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler field For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield? I saw this England break the shameful bands Forg'd for the souls of men by sacred hands: I saw each groaning realm her aid implore; Her sons the heroes of each warlike shore: Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard's bane) Obey'd through all the circuit of the main. Then too great Commerce, for a late-found world, Around your coast her eager sails unfurl'd: New hopes, new passions, thence the bosom fir'd; New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspir'd; Thence every scene, which private fortune knows, In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose. Disgrac'd I this full prospect which I drew ? Such from the first was my dramatic plan; I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyes No. Though the charms of novelty, a while, Yet not for you design'd indulgent Fate O blest at home with justly-envied laws, And guard the social world from bonds and shame; Nor yet those awful forms present, For chiefs and heroes only meant: The figur'd brass, the choral song, The rescued people's glad applause, The listening senate, and the laws Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's 'tongue, Are scenes too grand for Fortune's private ways; And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view, The sober gainful arts of modern days To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu. I ask not, god of dreams, thy care To banish Love's presentments fair: Nor rosy cheek, nor radiant eye Can arm him with such strong command That the young sorcerer's fatal hand Shall round my soul his pleasing fetters tie. Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile (A lighter phantom, and a baser chain) Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain. But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing Such honourable visions bring, As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age, When in prophetic dreams he saw The race unborn with pious awe Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page: Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows When Health's deep treasures, by his art explor'd, Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes, Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd. Nor to the embattled field Of valour, or the songs of conquest yield. While bare of crest he hew'd his fatal way, To heavier dangers did his breast oppose But what is man at enmity with truth? What were the fruits of Wentworth's copious mind, When (blighted all the promise of his youth) How impious Guile made Wisdom base; How generous Zeal to cruel Rage gave place; And how unbless'd he liv'd, and how dishonour'd fell. V. Thence never hath the Muse Around his tomb Pierian roses flung: Nor shall one poet's tongue His name for Music's pleasing labour choose. Hath deck'd some favour'd breast above the throng, That man with grievous wrong Affronts and wounds his genius, if he bends The functions of his ill-submitting mind. For worthy of the wise Nothing can seem but Virtue; nor Earth yield Save where impartial Freedom gives the prize. Enroll'd the next to William. There shall Time Point out that Somers, who from Faction's crowd, The slanderous and the loud, Could fair assent and modest reverence claim. Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire, Yet still to life's rude scene the proud ideas tame. VI. Let none profane be near! The Muse was never foreign to his breast: On Power's grave seat confess'd, Still to her voice he bent a lover's ear. And if the blessed know He knew, the patriot knew, That letters and the Muses' powerful art Exalt the ingenuous heart, And brighten every form of just and true. To civil Wisdom, than Corruption's lure They too from Envy's pale malignant light Cloth'd in the fairest colours of the day. O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe, "This man with faithful friendship," will I say, "From youth to honour'd age my arts and me hath view'd." ODE V. ON LOVE OF PRAISE. Or all the springs within the mind, Which prompt her steps in Fortune's maze From none more pleasing aid we find Nor any partial, private end Such reverence to the public bears; Nor any passion, Virtue's friend, So like to Virtue's self appears. For who in glory can delight Without delight in glorious deeds? What man a charming voice can slight, Who courts the echo that succeeds? But not the echo on the voice More, than on virtue praise depends 5 To which, of course, its real price The judgment of the praiser lends. If praise then with religious awe Nor priest, nor bard, nor sage hath taught. With which in character the same I count that soul of human fame, ODE VI. TO WILLIAM HALL, ESQUIRE ; ATTEND to Chaulieu's wanton lyre; Their ancient cares, even now the unfading groves, The epicure his theme pursues : Where haply Milton roves With Spenser, hear the enchanted echoes round Through furthest Heaven resound Wise Somers, guardian of their fame below. VOL. XIV. And tell me if, among the choir Whose music charms the banks of Seine, So full, so free, so rich a strain E'er dictated the warbling Muse. I |