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eye, Wonder to see the motions fly), Methinks, when you expose the scene,
Down the ill-organ'd engines fall; Off fly the vizards, and discover all:
How plain I see through the deceit!
How shallow and how gross the cheat!
On what poor engines move
What petty motives rule their fates !
Away the frighten’d peasants fly,
Scared at th’ unheard-of prodigy, Expect some great gigantic son of earth;
Lo! it appears!
Take thy unwonted flight,
See where she lies !
And rolls about her dreadful eyes,
Have worn a casement o'er their skin,
So he wore his within,
And though he oft renewed the fight,
He ne'er could overcome her quite, In pieces cut, the viper still did reunite :
Till, at last, tired with loss of time and ease,
Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy fields ;
Go, publish o'er the plain
How is the Muse luxuriant grown!
Whene'er she takes this flight
She soars clear out of sight. These are the paradises of her own:
Thy Pegasus, like an unruly horse,
Though ne'er so gently led,
Wake from thy wanton dreams,
Come from thy dear-loved streams,
Fain the fair nymph would stay,
And softly ste als in many windings down,
As loth to see the hated court and town; And murmurs as she glides away.
In this new happy scene
Here we expect from you
How that which we a kernel see
Shall ere long grow into a tree;
Where all the fruitful atoms lie;
Some more ambitiously upward fly,
Shall I believe a spirit so divine
Was cast in the same mould with mine? Why then does Nature so unjustly share Among her elder sons the whole estate,
And all her jewels and her plate ? Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care, Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a fato :
Some she binds 'prentice to the spade,
Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw,
Some she condemns for life to try
In vain I tug and pull the oar;
And when I almost reach the shore,
And yet, to feed my pride,
The tribute of an humble Muse,
Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse,
And since too oft debauch'd by praise,
In wisdom and philosophy:
Where nought but weeds will grow:
By an equivocal birth,
The recovery of this Ode was owing to the exertions of M. Nichol. (See his select
collection of poems, 1778.)
Are arts peculiar to dissembling France ;
And solid virtue does your name advance.
The glorious structure of your fame to raise ;
And into adoration turns our praise.
(Cowards are monarchs by that title made,)
And half your virtues had been lost in shade.
What trophies and what triumphs are your due,
You saw how near we were to ruin brought,
You saw th' iinpetuous torrent rolling on;
Which we could neither obviate nor shun.
Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice;
Did bravely spatch the lovely, helpless prize.
To preserve conquests, as at first to gain :
Which what is bravely won does well maintain.
An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend,
That must their doubtful liberty defend.
When Schomberg started at the vast design:
Th’ impulse, the fight, th’ event, were wholly thine.
You need but now give orders and command,
And spare the labor of your conquering hand.
To interrupt the fortune of your course :
Of secret malice or of open force.
Of glorious deeds that must all tongues employ ;
Of England's glory, and her lasting joy.
ODE TO TIIE ATHENIAN SOCIETY.'
Moor-park, Feb. 14, 1691
That mighty ebb never to How again,
It quite o'ercame the vital heat;
It be as great as 'tis in fame,
And nigh to heaven as is its name; "I have been told that Dryden, having perused these verses, said . Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet;' and that this denunciation was the motive of
Ο D Ε Τ Ο Τ Η Ε Α Τ Η Ε Ν Ι Α Ν
So, after th' inundation of a war,
At the first ebb of noise and fears,
And now a laurel wreath she brings from far,
To show the flood begins to cease,
When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew,
When the bright sun of peace began to shine, And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat,
On the high top of peaceful Ararat ; And pluck'd a laurel branch (for laurel was the first that grew, The first of plants after the thunder, storm, and rain),
And thence, with joyful, nimble wing,
Flew dutifully- back again,
And the Dove-Muse is fled once more,
And now discovers from afar
No sooner did she land
Where fatal Neptune ruled erewhile,
And many a pleasant wood;
llad rather water'd it than drown'd:
Preserved by wonder from the flood,
Famed Delos did of old;
Or the much-talk’d-of oracular grove
Charming her greedy ears
With many a heavenly song
In vain she catches at the empty sound,
And courts the wanton echoes as they iy.
The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland. — SWIFT.