TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE FRANCIS, EARL OF HUNTINGDON.
THE wise and great of every clime, Through all the spacious walks of Time, Where'er the Muse her power display'd, With joy have listen'd and obey'd. For, taught of Heaven, the sacred Nine Persuasive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal sense impart :
They best the soul with glory fire;
They noblest counsels, boldest deeds inspire; And high o'er Fortune's rage enthrone the fixed heart.
Nor less prevailing is their charm The vengeful bosom to disarm; To melt the proud with human woe, And prompt unwilling tears to flow. Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's sword, An equal empire claim?
No, Hastings. Thou my words will own: Thy breast the gifts of every Muse hath known; Nor shall the giver's love disgrace thy noble name.
And the blest function of the poet's tongue, Ne'er shalt thou blush to honor; to assert From all that scorned Vice or slavish Fear hath
Nor shall the blandishment of Tuscan strings Warbling at will in Pleasure's myrtle bower; Nor shall the servile notes to Celtic kings
By flattering minstrels paid in evil hour, Move thee to spurn the heavenly Muse's reign. A different strain,
From her prophetic shades and hallow'd streams, (Thou well canst witness) meet the purged ear: Such, as when Greece to her immortal shell Rejoicing listen'd, godlike sounds to hear;
To hear the sweet instructress tell (While men and heroes throng'd around) How life its noblest use may find, How well for freedom be resign'd; And how, by Glory, Virtue shall be crown'd.
Such was the Chian father's strain
To many a kind domestic train,
Whose pious hearth and genial bowl
Had cheer'd the reverend pilgrim's soul: When, every hospitable rite 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, Where yet he tunes his charming shell, Oft near him, with applauding hands, The Genius of his country stands.
Are there, approv'd of later times, Whose verse adorn'd a tyrant's crimes? Who saw majestic Rome betray'd, And lent the imperial ruffian aid? Alas! not one polluted bard, No, not the strains that Mincius heard, Or Tibur's hills replied, Dare to the Muse's ear aspire ; Save that, instructed by the Grecian lyre, With Freedom's ancient notes their shameful test they hide.
Mark, how the dread Pantheon stands, Amid the domes of modern hands: Amid the toys of idle state, How simply, how severely great! Then turn, and, while each western clime Presents her tuneful sons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name; And add, "Thus differs from the throng The spirit which inform'd thy awful song, Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country' fame."
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 hand,
And Virtue's worthless foes be false to Glory too. But look on Freedom. See, through every age What labors, perils, griefs, hath she disdain'd! What arms, what regal pride, what priestly rage, Have her dread offspring conquer'd or sustain'd! For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the strains Of happy swains, Which now resound
Where Scarsdale's cliffs the swelling pastures
Bear witness. There, oft let the farmer hail The sacred orchard which embowers 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 harms, Of papal snares and lawless arms, They plann'd for Freedom this her noblest reign.
This reign, these laws, this public care, Which Nassau gave us all to share, Had ne'er adorn'd the English name, Could Fear have silenc'd Freedom's claim. But Fear in vain attempts to bind Those lofty efforts of the mind
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?
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 honor and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave For lessons to the multitude unborn.
The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops, And spotless Vesta; while supreme of Sway Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch Of Tethys sprang the sedgy-crowned race, Who from a thousand urns, o'er every clime, Send tribute to their parent: and from them Are ye, O Naiads: Arethusa fair, And tuneful Aganippe; that sweet name, Bandusia; that soft family which dwelt With Syrian Daphne; and the honor'd tribes Belov'd of Pæon. Listen to my strain, Daughters of Tethys: listen to your praise.
You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old Aurora to divine Astræus bore, Owns; and your aid beseecheth. When the might Of Hyperion, from his noontide throne The nymphs, who preside over springs and rivulets, Unbends their languid pinions, aid from are addressed at day-break, in honor of their They ask: Favonius and the mild South-west several functions, and of the relations which they From you relief implore. Your sallying streams bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their Fresh vigor to their weary wings impart. origin is deduced from the first allegorical deities, Again they fly, disporting; from the mead or powers of Nature; according to the doctrine of Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn, the old mythological poets, concerning the gene- To sweep the noxious mildew; or dispel ration of the gods and the rise of things. They are then successively considered, as giving motion to the air and exciting summer-breezes; as nourishing and beautifying the vegetable creation; as contributing to the fullness of navigable rivers, and consequently to the maintenance of com- Solicit; nor unwelcome to the youth merce; and, by that means, to the maritime part Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclin'd of military power. Next is represented their O'er rushing Anio, with a pious hand favorable influence upon health, when assisted by The reverend scene delineates, broken fanes, rural exercise: which introduces their connexion Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp with the art of physic, and the happy effects of Of ancient Time; and haply, while he scans mineral medicinal springs. Lastly, they are cele- The ruins, with a silent tear revolves brated for the friendship which the Muses bear The fame and fortune of imperious Rome. them, and for the true inspiration which temperance only can receive: in opposition to the enthusiasm of the more licentious poets.
O'ER yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the god of day, With bright Astræa seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs, Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames, Who now the mazes of this rugged heath
Contagious steams, which oft the parched Earth Breathes on her fainting sons. From noon to eve, Along the river and the paved brook, Ascend the cheerful breezes: hail'd of bards Who, fast by learned Cam, the Æolian lyre
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid The rural powers confess; and still prepare For you their choicest treasures. Pan commands, Oft as the Delian king with Sirius holds The central heavens, the father of the grove Commands his Dryads over your abodes To spread their deepest umbrage. Well the god Remembereth how indulgent ye supplied Your genial dews to nurse them in their prime. Pales, the pasture's queen, where'er ye stray,
Trace with your fleeting steps; who all night long Pursues your steps, delighted; and the path
Repeat, amid the cool and tranquil air, Your lonely murmurs, tarry: and receive My offer'd lay. To pay you homage due,
With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts The laughing Chloris, with profusest hand, Throws wide her blooms, her odors. Still with you Pomona seeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns, And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn. Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant isles Nysæan or Atlantic. Nor canst thou, (Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou dost mock The beverage of the sober Naiad's urn, O Bromius, O Lenean) nor canst thou Disown the powers whose bounty, ill repaid, With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me, Yet, blameless Nymphs, from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim, Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band. For better praise awaits you. Thames, your sire, As down the verdant slope your duteous rills Descend, the tribute stately Thames receives, Delighted; and your piety applauds; And bids his copious tide roll on secure, Then social reign'd For faithful are his daughters; and with words
I leave the gates of Sleep; nor shall my lyre Too far into the splendid hours of morn Engage your audience: my observant hand Shall close the strain ere any sultry beam Approach you. To your subterranean haunts Ye then may timely steal; to pace with care The humid sands; to loosen from the soil The bubbling sources; to direct the rills To meet in wider channels; or beneath Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon To slumber, shelter'd from the burning heaven. Where shall my song begin, ye Nymphs? or end? Wide is your praise and copious-First of things, First of the lonely powers, ere Time arose, Were Love and Chaos. Love the sire of Fate; Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time, Who many sons and many comely births Devour'd, relentless father: till the child Of Rhea drove him from the upper sky And quell'd his deadly might.
Auspicious gratulates the bark which, now His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn, When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er Earth To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs He views and waving o'er some new-born stream His blest pacific wand, "And yet," he cries, "Yet," cries the son of Maia, "though recluse And silent be your stores, from you, fair Nymphs, Flows wealth and kind society to men. By you, my function and my honor'd name Do I possess; while o'er the Botic vale, Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct The English merchant: with the buxom fleece Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe Sarmatian kings; or to the household gods Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore, Dispense the mineral treasure which of old Sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land Was yet unconscious of those generous arts Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime Transplanted to a more indulgent Heaven." Such are the words of Hermes: such the praise, O Naiads, which from tongues celestial waits Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power: And those who, sedulous in prudent works, Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays With noble wealth, and his own seat on Earth, Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns Not vainly to the hospitable arts
Of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye Nymphs, Hath he not won the unconquerable queen Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns The fair associates who extend her sway Wide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things Of you she uttereth, oft as from the shore Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green barks Of Vecta, she her thundering navy leads To Calpe's foaming channel, or the rough Cantabrian surge; her auspices divine Imparting to the senate and the prince Of Albion, to dismay barbaric kings, The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings Was ever scorn'd by Pallas: and of old Rejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow Of Athens o'er Egina's gloomy surge,
To drive her clouds and storms; o'erwhelming all The Persian's promis'd glory, when the realms Of Indus and the soft Ionian clime, When Libya's torrid champain and the rocks Of cold Imaus join'd their servile bands, To sweep the sons of Liberty from Earth. In vain: Minerva on the bounding prow Of Athens stood, and with the thunder's voice Denounc'd her terrors on their impious heads, And shook her burning ægis. Xerxes saw: From Heracléum, on the mountain's height Thron'd in his golden car, he knew the sign Celestial; felt unrighteous hope forsake His faltering heart, and turn'd his face with shame. Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power; Who arm the hand of Liberty for war; And give to the renown'd Britannic name To awe contending monarchs: yet benign, Yet mild of nature; to the works of peace More prone, and lenient of the many ills
Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid Hygeia well can witness; she who saves From poisonous cates and cups of pleasing bane The wretch devoted to the entangling snares Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads
To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils, To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds, She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams: And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze, And where the fervor of the sunny vale May beat upon his brow, through devious paths Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when ease, Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd His eager bosom, does the queen of health Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board She guards, presiding; and the frugal powers With joy sedate leads in: and while the brown Ennæan dame with Pan presents her stores; While changing still, and comely in the change,. Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread The garden's banquet; you to crown his feast, To crown his feast, O Naiads, you the fair Hygeia calls: and from your shelving seats, And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring, To slake his veins: till soon a purer tide Flows down those loaded channels; washeth off The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds Of crude disease; and through the abodes of life |Sends vigor, sends repose. Hail, Naiads: hail, Who give, to labor, health; to stooping age, The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your
Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praise, Abash the frantic Thyrsus with my song.
For not estrang'd from your benignant arts Is he, the god, to whose mysterious shrine My youth was sacred, and my votive cares Belong; the learn'd Pæon. Oft, when all His cordial treasures he hath search'd in vain; When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm Rich with the genial influence of the Sun, (To rouse dark Fancy from her plaintive dreams, To brace the nerveless arm, with food to win Sick appetite, or hush the unquiet breast Which pines with silent passion,) he in vain Hath prov'd; to your deep mansions he descends, Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades, He entereth; where empurpled veins of ore Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine Your trickling rills insinuate. There the god From your indulgent hands the streaming bowl Wafts to his pale-ey'd suppliants; wafts the seeds Metallic, and the elemental salts
Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and Flies pain; flies inauspicious care: and soon The social haunt or unfrequented shade Hears Io, lo Pæan; as of old,
When Python fell. And, Oh propitious Nymphs, Oft as for helpless mortals I implore Your salutary springs, through every urn Oh shed your healing treasures. With the first And finest breath, which from the genial strife Of mineral fermentation springs like light O'er the fresh morning's vapors, lustrate then The fountain, and inform the rising wave.
My lyre shall pay your bounty. Scorn not ye That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes Not unregarded of celestial powers,
I frame their language; and the Muses deign To guide the pious tenor of my lay. The Muses (sacred by their gifts divine) In early days did to my wondering sense Their secrets oft reveal: oft my rais'd ear In slumber felt their music: oft at noon, Or hour of sun-set, by some lonely stream, In field or shady grove, they taught me words Of power, from death and envy to preserve
The good man's name. Whence yet with grateful mind,
And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye,
My vows I send, my homage, to the seats
Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell: Where you their chaste companions they admit Through all the hallow'd scene: where oft intent, And leaning o'er Castalia's mossy verge, They mark the cadence of your confluent urns, How tuneful, yielding gratefullest repose To their consorted measure: till again, With emulation all the sounding choir, And bright Apollo, leader of the song, Their voices through the liquid air exalt, And sweep their lofty strings: those powerful strings That charm the mind of gods: that fill the courts Of wide Olympus with oblivion sweet Of evils, with immortal rest from cares: Assuage the terrors of the throne of Jove; And quench the formidable thunderbolt Of unrelenting fire. With slacken'd wings, While now the solemn concert breathes around, Incumbent o'er the sceptre of his lord
Sleeps the stern eagle; by the number'd notes, Possess'd; and satiate with the melting tone: Sovereign of birds. The furious god of war, His darts forgetting, and the winged wheels That bear him vengeful o'er the embattled plain, Relents, and soothes his own fierce heart to ease, Most welcome ease. The sire of gods and men, In that great moment of divine delight, Looks down on all that live; and whatsoe'er He loves not, o'er the peopled earth, and o'er The interminated ocean, he beholds Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom severe, And troubled at the sound. Ye Naiads, ye With ravish'd ears the melody attend, Worthy of sacred silence. But the slaves Of Bacchus with tempestuous clamors strive To drown the heavenly strains; of highest Jove Irreverent, and by mad presumption fir'd Their own discordant raptures to advance With hostile emulation. Down they rush From Nysa's vine-empurpled cliff, the dames Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and the unruly Fauns, With old Silenus, reeling through the crowd Which gambols round him, in convulsions wild Tossing their limbs, and brandishing in air The ivy-mantled thyrsus, or the torch Through black smoke flaming, to the Phrygian pipe's Shrill voice, and to the clashing cymbals, mix'd With shrieks and frantic uproar. May the gods From every unpolluted ear avert
Their orgies! If within the seats of men, Within the walls, the gates, where Pallas holds The guardian key, if haply there be found Who loves to mingle with the revel-band And hearken to their accents; who aspires From such instructors to inform his breast
With verse; let him, fit votarist, implore Their inspiration. He perchance the gifts Of young Lyæus, and the dread exploits, May sing in aptest numbers: he the fate Of sober Pentheus, he the Paphian rites, And naked Mars with Cytherea chain'd, And strong Alcides in the spinster's robes, May celebrate, applauded. But with you, O Naiads, far from that unhallow'd rout, Must dwell the man whoe'er to praised themes Invokes the immortal Muse. The immortal Muse To your calm habitations, to the cave Corycian, or the Delphic mount, will guide His footsteps; and with your unsullied streams His lips will bathe: whether the eternal lore Of Themis, or the majesty of Jove, To mortals he reveal; or teach his lyre The unenvied guerdon of the patriot's toils, In those unfading islands of the bless'd, Where sacred bards abide. Hail, honor'd Nymphs; Thrice hail. For you the Cyrenaïc shell Behold, I touch, revering. To my songs Be present ye with favorable feet, And all profaner audience far remove.
TO THE RIGHT REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORDBISHOP OF WINCHESTER.
FOR toils which patriots have endur'd, For treason quell'd and laws secur'd, In every nation Time displays The palm of honorable praise. Envy may rail; and Faction fierce May strive; but what, alas! can those (Though bold, yet blind and sordid foes) To gratitude and love oppose,
To faithful story and persuasive verse!
O nurse of Freedom, Albion, say, Thou tamer of despotic sway, What man, among thy sons around, Thus heir to glory hast thou found? What page in all thy annals bright, Hast thou with purer joy survey'd Than that where Truth, by Hoadly's aid, Shines through Imposture's solemn shade, Through kingly and through sacerdotal night!
To him the Teacher bless'd, Who sent Religion, from the palmy field By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the west, And lifted up the veil which Heaven from Earth conceal'd,
To Hoadly thus his mandate he address'd: "Go thou, and rescue my dishonor'd law From hands rapacious, and from tongues impure Let not my peaceful name be made a lure Fell Persecution's mortal snares to aid: Let not my words be impious chains to draw The free-born soul in more than brutal awe, To faith without assent, allegiance unrepaid."
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