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. But of vain boldness the unhappy fame, 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 Which in no channel deigns t' abide, Or the great acts of God-descended kings, 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; The grave can but the dross of him devour, Lo, how th' obsequious wind, and swelling air, Does with weak, unballast wings, And all inferior beauteous things, For little drops of honey flee, And there with humble sweets contents her industry. THE RESURRECTION. NOT winds to voyagers at sea, Than Verse to Virtue; which can do The midwife's office and the nurse's too; Embalms it, and erects a pyramid Till heaven itself shall melt away, 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, 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 he himself shall see in one fire shine Whom thunder's dismal noise, And open tombs, and open eyes, To the long sluggards of five thousand years! Some from birds, from fishes some; And, where th' attending soul naked and shivering stands, Meet, salute, and join their hands; As dispers'd soldiers, at the trumpet's call, 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, Hold thy Pindarick Pegasus closely in, 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; But flings writer and reader too, that sits not sure. |