Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request A short account of all the Muse possest, That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's Times, Have spent their Noble Rage in British Rhimes; Without more Preface, wrote in Formal length, To speak the Undertakers want of strength, I'll try to make they're sev'ral Beauties known, And show their Verses worth, tho' not my Own.
Long had our dull Fore-Fathers slept Supine, Nor felt the Raptures of the Tuneful Nine; Till Chaucer first, the merry Bard, arose; And many a Story told in Rhime and Prose. But Age has Rusted what the Poet writ, Worn out his Language, and obscur'd his Wit: In vain he jests in his unpolish'd strain, And tries to make his Readers laugh in vain.
Old Spencer next, warm'd with Poetick Rage, In Antick Tales amus'd a Barb'rous Age; An Age that yet uncultivate and Rude, Where-e'er the Poet's Fancy led, pursu'd Through pathless Fields, and unfrequented Floods, To Dens of Dragons and Enchanted Woods. But now the Mystick Tale, that pleas'd of Yore, Can Charm an understanding Age no more; The long-spun Allegories fulsom grow, While the dull Moral lies too plain below. We view well-pleas'd at distance all the sights Of Arms and Palfreys, Battle's, Fields, and Fights, And Damsels in Distress, and Courteous Knights. But when we look too near, the Shades decay, And all the pleasing Lan-skip fades away.
Great Cowley then (a mighty Genius) wrote; O'er-run with Wit, and lavish of his Thought: His Turns too closely on the Reader press; He more had pleas'd us, had he pleas'd us less. One glitt'ring Thought no sooner strikes our Eyes With silent wonder, but new wonders rise. As in the Milky way a shining White, O'er-flows the Heav'ns, with one continu'd Light; That not a single Star can shew his Rays, Whilst joyntly all promote the Common-Blaze. Pardon, Great Poet, that I dare to name Th' unnumber'd Beauties of thy Verse with blame; Thy fault is only Wit in its Excess, But Wit like thine in any shape will please. What Muse but thine cou'd equal Hints inspire, And fit the Deep-Mouth'd Pindar to thy Lyre: Pindar, whom others in a Labour'd strain And forc'd Expression, imitate in vain? Well-pleas'd in thee he Soars with new delight, And Plays in more unbounded Verse, and takes a nobler flight.
Blest Man! whose spotless Life and Charming Lays Employ'd the Tuneful Prelate in thy Praise: Blest Man! who now shall be for ever known In Sprat's successful Labours and thy own.
But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfetter'd in Majestic Numbers walks; No vulgar Heroe can his Muse ingage; Nor Earth's wide Scene confine his hallow'd Rage. See! see, he upward Springs, and Tow'ring high, Spurns the dull Province of Mortality; Shakes Heav'ns Eternal Throne with dire Alarms, And sets the Almighty Thunderer in Arms. What-e'er his Pen describes I more then see, Whilst ev'ry Verse array'd in Majesty, Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws, And seems above the Criticks nicer Laws. How are you struck with Terrour and Delight, When Angel with Arch-Angel Cope's in Fight! When Great Messiah's out-spread Banner shines, How does the Chariot Rattel in his Lines! What sounds of Brazen Wheels, what Thunder, scare, And stun the Reader with the Din of War! With Fear my Spirits and my Blood retire, To see the Seraphs sunk in Clouds of Fire; But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise, And view the first gay Scenes of Paradise; What Tongue, what words of Rapture, can express A Vision so profuse of pleasantness. Oh had the Poet ne'er profan'd his Pen, To varnish o'er the Guilt of Faithless Men, His other works might have deserv'd applause! But now the Language can't support the Cause; While the clean Current, tho' serene and bright, Betray's a bottom odious to the sight.
But now my Muse, a softer strain rehearse. Turn every Line with Art, and smooth thy Verse; The Courtly Waller next commands thy Lays: Muse Tune thy Verse, with Art, to Waller's Praise. While tender Airs and lovely Dames inspire Soft melting Thoughts, and propagate Desire; So long shall Waller's strains our Passion move, And Sacharissa's Beauties kindle Love. Thy Verse, Harmonious Bard, and flatt'ring Song, Can make the Vanquish'd Great, the Coward strong. Thy Verse can show ev'n Cromwell's innocence, And Compliment the Storms that bore him hence. Oh had thy Muse not come an Age too soon, But seen Great Nassaw on the British Throne! How had his Triumphs glitter'd in thy Page, And warm'd Thee to a more Exalted Rage! What Scenes of Death and Horrour had we viewd, And how had Boine's wide Current Reek'd in Blood! Or if Maria's Charms thou wou'dst rehearse, In smoother Numbers and a softer Verse, Thy Pen had well describ'd her Graceful Air, And Gloriana wou'd have seem'd more Fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by, That makes ev'n Rules a noble Poetry: Rules who's deep Sense and Heav'nly Numbers show The best of Critticks, and of Poets too. Nor Denham must we e'er forget thy Strains, While Cooper's Hill commands the neighb'ring Plains.
But see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in Rhime, but Charming ev'n in Years. Great Dryden next! whose Tuneful Muse affords The sweetest Numbers, and the fittest words. Whether in Comick sounds or Tragick Airs She form's her voice, she moves our Smiles or Tears. If Satire or Heroick Strains she writes, Her Heroe pleases, and her Satire Bites. From her no harsh, unartful Numbers fall, She wears all Dresses, and she Charms in all: How might we fear our English Poetry, That long has flourish'd, shou'd decay with Thee; Did not the Muses other Hope appear, Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our Fear. Congreve! whose Fancies unexhausted Store Has given already much, and promis'd more. Congreve shall still preserve thy Fame alive And Dryden's Muse shall in his Friend survive.
I'm tir'd with Rhiming, and wou'd fain give o'er, But Justice still demands one Labour more: The Noble Montague remains unnam'd, For Wit, for Humour, and for Judgment fam'd; To Dorset he directs his Artful Muse, In numbers such as Dorset's self might use. How negligently Graceful he unrein's His Verse, and writes in loose Familiar strains; How Nassau's Godlike Acts adorn his Lines, And all the Heroe in full Glory Shines. We see his Army set in just Array, And Boine's Di'd Waves run purple to the Sea. Nor Simois chok'd with men, and Arms, and Blood; Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated Flood: Shall longer be the Poet's highest Themes. Tho' Gods and Heroes fought, Promiscuous in they're streams. But now, to Nassau's secret Councils rais'd, He Aids the Heroe, whom before he Prais'd.
I've done, at length, and now, Dear Friend, receive The last poor Present that my Muse can give. I leave the Arts of Poetry and Verse To them that practise 'em with more success. Of greater Truths I'll now prepare to tell, And so at once, Dear Friend and Muse, Farewell.
An Ode For St. Cecilia's Day
I. Prepare the hallow'd strain, My Muse, Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbrs chuse; the bright Cecilia's praise rehearse, In warbling words,a nd glittering verse, that smootly run into a song, and gently die away,and melt upon the tongue.
II. First let the sprightly violin The joyful melody begin, And none of all her strings be mute, while the sharp sound and shriller lay In sweet harmonious notes decay, Soften and mellow'd by the flute. 'The Flute that sweetly can complain, 'Disolve the frozen nymph's disdain; 'Panting sympathy impart, 'Till she partake of her lover's smart.'
C H O R U S.
III. Next, let the solemn organ join Religious airs, and strains divine, Such as may lift us to the skies, And set all heaven before our eyes: 'Such as may lift us to the skies; 'So far at least till they 'Descend with kind surprise. 'And meet our pious harmony half-way.'
IV. Let then the trumpet's piersing sound Our ravish'd ears with pleasure wound: The Soul o'er-powering with delight, As, with a quick uncommon ray, A streak of lightning clears the day, And flashes on the sight. Let echo too perform her part, Prolonging every note with art, And in a low expiring strain Play all the concert o'er again.
V. Such were the tuneful notes that hung On bright Cecilia's charming tongue: Notes that sacred heats inspir'd, and with religious ardour fir'd: The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd His smother'd passion in hisbreast, No sooner heard the warbling dame, But, by the secret influence turn'd, He felt a new diviner flame, And with devotion burn'd. With ravish'd soul,a nd looks amaz'd, Upon her beauteous face he gaz'd;
Nor made his amorous complaint: In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd. Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd, And chang'd the lover to a saint.
G R A N D C H O R U S.
VI. And how the choir compleat rejoices, With trembling strings and melting voices, The tuneful ferment rises high, And works with mingled melody: Quick divisions run their rounds, A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o'er us fly. Till wafted by a gentle breeze, They faint and languish by degrees, And at a distance die.
Hope
Our lives, discoloured with our present woes, May still grow white and shine with happier hours. So the pure limped stream, when foul with stains Of rushing torrents and descending rains, Works itself clear, and as it runs refines, till by degrees the floating mirror shines; Reflects each flower that on the border grows, And a new heaven in it's fair bosom shows.
How Are Thy Servants Blest, O Lord!
How are Thy servants blest, O Lord! How sure is their defense! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence.
In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by Thy care, Through burning climes they pass unhurt, And breathe in tainted air.
When by the dreadful tempest borne High on the broken wave, They know Thou art not slow to her, Nor impotent to save.
The storm is laid, the winds retire, Obedient to Thy will, The sea, that roars at Thy command, At Thy command is still.
From all our griefs and fears, O Lord, Thy mercy sets us free; While in the confidence of prayer Our hearts take hold on Thee.
In midst of dangers, fears and death, Thy goodness we adore; We praise Thee for Thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more
Our life, while Thou preservest life, A sacrifice shall be; And death, when death shall be our lot, Shall join our souls to Thee.
Hymn
The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied Sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display; And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; And nightly to the listening Earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice; For ever singing as they shine, 'The Hand that made us is divine.'
Immortality
O Liberty! thou goddess, heavenly bright, profuse of bliss and pregnant with delight, Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy smiling train. Eased of her load Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight. Giv'st beauty to the sun and pleasures to the day. thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores! How oft has she exhausted all her stores! How oft on fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine the grape's soft juice and mellow it in wine. With citron groves adorn a distant soil. And the fat olives swell with floods of oil. We envy not the warmer clime, that lies in ten degrees of more indulgent skies; Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine. 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains shine
Ode
The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim: Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty Hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail, The Moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the list'ning Earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though nor real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, For ever singing, as they shine, 'The Hand that made us is Divine.'
