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THE PRAISE OF PINDAR.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S SECOND ODE, B.IV.

"Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari, &c."

PINDAR is imitable by none;

The Phoenix Pindar is a vast species alone.
Who e'er but Dædalus with waxen wings could fly,
And neither sink too low nor soar too high?
What could he who follow'd claim,

But of vain boldness the unhappy fame,
And by his fall a sea to name?

Pindar's unnavigable song

Like a swoln flood from some steep mountain pours along;

The ocean meets with such a voice,

From his enlarged mouth, as drowns the ocean's noise.

So Pindar does new words and figures roll
Down his impetuous dithyrambick tide,

Which in no channel deigns t' abide,
Which neither banks nor dykes control:
Whether th' immortal Gods he sings,
In a no less immortal strain,

Or the great acts of God-descended kings,
Who in his numbers still survive and reign;

Each rich-embroider'd line,

Which their triumphant brows around

By his sacred hand is bound,

Does all their starry diadems outshine.

Whether at Pisa's race he please

To carve in polish'd verse the conqueror's images; Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong,

Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song; Whether some brave young man's untimely fate, In words worth dying for, he celebrate

Such mournful, and such pleasing words, As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief affords

He bids him live and grow in fame;
Among the stars he sticks his name ;

The grave can but the dross of him devour,
So small is Death's, so great the Poet's, power!

Lo, how th' obsequious wind, and swelling air,
The Theban swan does upwards bear
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play,
And with extended wings opens his liquid way!
Whilst, alas! my timorous Muse
Unambitious tracks pursues;

Does with weak, unballast wings,
About the mossy brooks and springs,
About the trees' new-blossom'd heads,
About the gardens' painted beds,
About the fields and flowery meads,

And all inferior beauteous things,
Like the laborious bee,

For little drops of honey flee,

And there with humble sweets contents her industry.

THE RESURRECTION.

NOT winds to voyagers at sea,
Nor showers to earth more necessary be
(Heaven's vital seed cast on the womb of earth
To give the fruitful year a birth)

Than Verse to Virtue; which can do

The midwife's office and the nurse's too;
It feeds it strongly, and it clothes it gay,
And, when it dies, with comely pride

Embalms it, and erects a pyramid
That never will decay

Till heaven itself shall melt away,
And nought behind it stay.

Begin the song, and strike the living lyre;

Lo! how the years to come, a numerous and wellfitted quire,

All hand in hand do decently advance,

And to my song with smooth and equal measures

dance!

Whilst the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be,
My musick's voice shall bear it company;

Till all gentle notes be drown'd

In the last trumpet's dreadful sound: That to the spheres themselves shall silence bring, Untune the universal string :

Then all the wide-extended sky,

And all th' harmonious worlds on high,
And Virgil's sacred work, shall die;

And he himself shall see in one fire shine
Rich Nature's ancient Troy, though built by hands
divine.

Whom thunder's dismal noise,
And all that prophets and apostles louder spake,
And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice,
Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,
This mightier sound shall make
When dead t' arise;

And open tombs, and open eyes,

To the long sluggards of five thousand years!
This mightier sound shall make its hearers ears.
Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding come
Back to their ancient home;

Some from birds, from fishes some;
Some from earth, and some from seas;
Some from beasts, and some from trees;
Some descend from clouds on high,
Some from metals upwards fly,

And, where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands,

Meet, salute, and join their hands;

As dispers'd soldiers, at the trumpet's call,
Haste to their colours all.

Unhappy most, like tortur❜d men, Their joints new set, to be new-rack'd again, To mountains they for shelter pray, The mountains shake, and run about no less confus'd than they.

Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vigorous heat,
Kindled at a hint so great;

Hold thy Pindarick Pegasus closely in,
Which does to rage begin,

And this steep hill would gallop up with violent

course;

'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,

Fierce and unbroken yet,

Impatient of the spur or bit;

Now prances stately, and anon flies o'er the place;
Disdains the servile law of any settled pace,
Conscious and proud of his own natural force.
"T will no unskilful touch endure,

But flings writer and reader too, that sits not sure.

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