Next, cleans'd from his unhallow'd scum, The mighty Juvenal shall come, And high his vengeance wield: His satires sound the loud alarm And, cowering, quits the field. In vain should I expect delight Had pierc'd the shades that veil him round, Now Seneca, with tragic lays, Now Sophocles lets loose his rage: In long and regular array, My shelves your volumes shall display, No moth's, no worm's insidious rage Meanwhile, let Martial's blushless Muse With Ovid's verse, that, as it rolls, With luscious poison taints our souls, See, from the Caledonian shore, Hail, honour'd heir of David's lyre, What terror sounds through all thy strings When billows upon billows roll, To hush the raging storm to rest, Thou sacred bard, whene'er I rove My humble mansion thou shalt grace, And tune the' ecstatic lay: When the returning shades of night Thy sweet angelic airs Shall warble to my ear, till Sleep's Soft influence o'er my senses creeps Next comes the charming Casimire; The bard divinely sings: The heavenly Muse inspir'd his tongue, The heavenly Muse his viol strung, And tun'd the' harmonious strings. See on what full, what rapid gales, Whether 'tis his divine delight Or to explore the seats above, With what a wing! to what a height ! I from afar behold his course, Methinks, enkindled by the name Now shoots through all my soul. I feel, I feel the raptures rise, And range from pole to pole. Touching on Zion's sacred brow, O, how they stretch their eager arms In groveling cares and stormy strife What is a diadem, that's tost From hand to hand, now won, now lost, From all terrestrial dregs refin'd My soul shall her sublimest lay And sound his praise abroad. Ye heroes, with your blood-stain❜d arms, Avaunt! ye despicable train Of gods, the phantoms of the brain, Or what the god of Wine? I never will profane this hand The sacred boughs to twine. The thyrsus, mentioned by the Doctor in his ode, was a spear twined round with ivy or bay leaves, which the votaries of Bacchus carried about in their hands at his feasts. 'Tis all romance, beneath a thought, And crush'd the dragon's spires; Thy name, Almighty Sire! and thine, In numbers by no vulgar bounds control'd, I'll sound through all the world the' immeasurable praise! But in the moment the Muse is promising great things, her vigour fails, her eyes are dazzled with the divine glories, her pinions flutter, her limbs tremble; she rushes headlong from the skies, falls to the earth, and there lies vanquished, overwhelmed in confusion and silence. Forgive, Reverend Sir, the vain attempt, and kindly accept this poetical fragment, though rude and unpolished, as an expression of that gratitude which has been so long due to your merit. |