Ocean: An Ode

[pg 152]Ocean: An Odeoccasioned by His Majesty's Royal Encouragement of the Sea Service.To Which is Prefixed an Ode to the King; and a Discourse on Ode.I think myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be taken, by some addition to that fund, to render comfortable and effectual that charitable provision, for the support and maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age and infirmities, in the service of their country.[Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]To the King.—1728.Old ocean's praiseDemands my lays;A truly British theme I sing;A theme so great,I dare complete,And join with ocean, ocean's king.[pg 153]The Roman odeMajestic flow'd:Its stream divinely clear, and strong;In sense, and sound,Thebes roll'd profound;The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.Let Thebes, nor Rome,So fam'd, presumeTo triumph o'er a northern isle;Late time shall knowThe north can glow,If dread Augustus deign to smile.The naval crownIs all his own!Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,His will performsThrough waves and storms,And rides in triumph round the ball.No former race,With strong embrace,This theme to ravish durst aspire;With virgin charmsMy soul it warms,And melts melodious on my lyre.My lays I fileWith cautious toil;Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;[pg 154]On anvils neatYour strokes repeat;At every stroke the work refines!How music charms!How metre warms!Parent of actions, good and brave!How vice it tames!And worth inflames!And holds proud empire o'er the grave!Jove mark'd for manA scanty span,But lent him wings to fly his doom;Wit scorns the grave;To wit he gaveThe life of gods! immortal bloom!Since years will fly,And pleasures die,Day after day, as years advance;Since, while life lasts,Joy suffers blastsFrom frowning fate, and fickle chance;Nor life is long;But soon we throng,Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;We make, at least,Of bad the best,If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.[pg 155]Our strains divideThe laurel's pride;With those we lift to life, to live;By fame enroll'dWith heroes bold,And share the blessings which we give.What hero's praiseCan fire my lays,Like his, with whom my lay begun?"Justice sincere,And courage clear,Rise the two columns of his throne."How form'd for sway!Who look, obey;They read the monarch in his port:Their love and aweSupply the law;And his own lustre makes the court:"On yonder height,What golden lightTriumphant shines? and shines alone?Unrivall'd blaze!The nations gaze!'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.Our monarch, there,Rear'd high in air,Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;[pg 156]Like British oak,Derides the stroke;His blooming honours far extend!Beneath them lies,With lifted eyes,Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;While interest wingsBold foreign kingsTo fly, like eagles, to his shade.At his proud footThe sea, pour'd out,Immortal nourishment supplies;Thence wealth and state,And power and fate,Which Europe reads in George's eyes.From what we view,We take the clue,Which leads from great to greater thingMen doubt no more,But gods adore,When such resemblance shines in kings.[pg 157]On Lyric Poetry.How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration for success in it.To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainlyNon hos quæsitum munus in usus.—Virg.He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.[pg 158]Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.Concordes animæ—dum nocte prementur;Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitæAttigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et cœlestibus armis,Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!Nec te ullæ facies, non terruit ipse TyphœusArduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens,Contemtorque Deûm Mezentius.Virg.[pg 159]But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it.The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some compositions, takes[pg 160]away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful error a pen can commit.Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow limits of their own comprehensions and relish.[pg 161]Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only, can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind.But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger; the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error: nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still admirable; and,[pg 162]Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judæa is to Scotland.Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to taste of her charms;Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;a danger which Horace declares he durst not run.Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.Sappho's Muse, like Lady ——, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the[pg 163]fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own understandings.But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express majesty, (viz.)Assumes the God,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres,are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great.For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That is, he must make[pg 164]rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, reputation to the poet.To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted; otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us[pg 165]their inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage are not so liable to the thief.The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects; which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"Versus inopes rerum, nugæque canoræ;if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country and my king.And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine[pg 166]air partakes more of the negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life—Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suæ pondus.—Petron.A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at a hair or a nail. And we know the cause wasQuia ponere totumNescius.Hor.To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its full extent.[pg 167]Ocean. An Ode.Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.PsalmXCVIII.Sweet rural scene!Of flocks and green!At careless ease my limbs are spread;All nature still,But yonder rill;And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:In prospect wide,The boundless tide!Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;Without a breeze,The curling seasDance on, in measure to the shore.Who sings the sourceOf wealth and force?Vast field of commerce, and big war,Where wonders dwell!Where terrors swell!And Neptune thunders from his car?Where? where are they,Whom Pæan's rayHas touch'd, and bid divinely rave?—[pg 168]What! none aspire?I snatch the lyre,And plunge into the foaming wave.The wave resounds!The rock rebounds!The Nereids to my song reply!I lead the choir,And they conspire,With voice and shell, to lift it high.They spread in airTheir bosoms fair,Their verdant tresses pour behind:The billows beatWith nimble feet,With notes triumphant swell the wind.Who love the shore,Let those adoreThe god Apollo, and his Nine,Parnassus' hill,And Orpheus' skill;But let Arion's harp be mine.The main! the main!Is Britain's reign;Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:The main! the main!Be Britain's strain;As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.[pg 169]Thro' nature wideIs nought descriedSo rich in pleasure or surprise;When all-serene,How sweet the scene!How dreadful, when the billows rise;And storms defaceThe fluid glass,In which erewhile Britannia fairLook'd down with pride,Like Ocean's bride,Adjusting her majestic air!When tempests cease,And, hush'd in peace,The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,Deep silence keep,And seem to sleepRecumbent on their oozy bed;With what a trance,The level glance,Unbroken, shoots along the seas!Which tempt from shoreThe painted oar;And every canvass courts the breeze!When rushes forthThe frowning northOn black'ning billows, with what dread[pg 170]My shuddering soulBeholds them roll,And hears their roarings o'er my head!With terror markYon flying bark!Now center-deep descend the brave;Now, toss'd on high,It takes the sky,A feather on the tow'ring wave!Now spins aroundIn whirls profound:Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;Now stunn'd, it reels'Midst thunder's peals:And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.All ether burns!Chaos returns!And blends, once more, the seas and skies:No space betweenThy bosom green,O deep! and the blue concave, lies.The northern blast,The shatter'd mast,The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,The breaking spout,The stars gone out,The boiling streight, the monsters shock,[pg 171]Let others fear;To Britain dearWhate'er promotes her daring claim;Those terrors charm,Which keep her warmIn chase of honest gain, or fame.The stars are brightTo cheer the night,And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire;And Phœbus' flames,With burnish'd beams,Which some adore, and all admire.Are then the seasOutshone by these?Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;With kinder beams,And softer gleams,Thy bosom wears them as thy own.There, set in green,Gold stars are seen,A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;And when the sunHis race has run,He falls enamour'd in thy lap.Those clouds, whose dyesAdorn the skies,That silver snow, that pearly rain,[pg 172]Has Phœbus stoleTo grace the pole,The plunder of th' invaded main!The gaudy bow,Whose colours glow,Whose arch with so much skill is bent,To Phœbus' ray,Which paints so gay,By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.In chambers deep,Where waters sleep,What unknown treasures pave the floor!The pearl, in rows,Pale lustre throws;The wealth immense, which storms devour.From Indian mines,With proud designs,The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;The tempests rise,And seize the prize,And toss him breathless on the shore.His son complainsIn pious strains,"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;Then ploughs the main,In zeal for gain,The tears yet swelling in his eyes.[pg 173]Thou wat'ry vast!What mounds are castTo bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!Thy proudest foamMust know its home;But rage of gold disdains a shore.Gold pleasure buys;But pleasure dies,Too soon the gross fruition cloys;Tho' raptures court,The sense is short;But virtue kindles living joys;Joys felt alone!Joys ask'd of none!Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:Joys that subsist,Tho' fates resist,An unprecarious, endless bliss!The soul refin'dIs most inclin'dTo every moral excellence;All vice is dull,A knave's a fool;And virtue is the child of sense.The virtuous mind,Nor wave, nor wind,Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,[pg 174]The shaken ball,Nor planet's fall,From its firm basis can dethrone.This Britain knows,And therefore glowsWith gen'rous passions, and expendsHer wealth and zealOn public weal,And brightens both by god-like ends.What end so greatAs that which lateAwoke the genius of the main;Which tow'ring roseWith George to close,And rival great Eliza's reign?A voice has flownFrom Britain's throneTo re-inflame a grand design;That voice shall rearYon23fabric fair,As nature's rose at the divine.When nature sprung,Blest angels sung,And shouted o'er the rising ball;[pg 175]For strains as highAs man's can fly,These sea-devoted honours call.From boist'rous seas,The lap of easeReceives our wounded, and our old;High domes ascend!Stretch'd arches bend!Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!Here, soft reclin'd,From wave, from wind,And fortune's tempest safe ashore,To cheat their care,Of former warThey talk the pleasing shadows o'er.In lengthen'd tales,Our fleet prevails;In tales the lenitives of age!And o'er the bowl,They fire the soulOf list'ning youth, to martial rage.Unhappy they!And falsely gay!Who bask for ever in success;A constant feastQuite palls the taste,And long enjoyment is distress.[pg 176]When, after toil,His native soilThe panting mariner regains,What transport flowsFrom bare repose!We reap our pleasure from our pains.Ye warlike slain!Beneath the main,Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet;Who bought with bloodYour country's good,Your country's24full-blown glory greet.What pow'rful charmCan death disarm?Your long, your iron slumbers break?By Jove, by Fame,By George's name,Awake! awake! awake! awake!With spiral shell,Full blasted, tell,That all your wat'ry realms should ring;Your pearl alcoves,Your coral groves,Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.[pg 177]As long as starsGuide mariners,As Carolina's virtues please,Or suns inviteThe ravish'd sight,The British flag shall sweep the seas.Peculiar both!Our soil's strong growth,And our bold natives' hardy mind;Sure heaven bespokeOur hearts and oak,To give a master to mankind.That noblest birthOf teeming earth,Of forests fair, that daughter proud,To foreign coastsOur grandeur boasts,And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:Now big with war,Sends fate from far,If rebel realms their fate demand,Now, sumptuous spoilsOf foreign soilsPours in the bosom of our land.Hence Britain laysIn scales, and weighsThe fate of kingdoms, and of kings;[pg 178]And as she frowns,Or smiles, on crownsA night, or day of glory, springs.Thus ocean swellsThe streams and rills,And to their borders lifts them high;Or else withdrawsThe mighty cause,And leaves their famish'd channels dry.How mixt, how frail,How sure to fail,Is every pleasure of mankind!A damp destroysMy blooming joys,While Britain's glory fires my mind.For who can gazeOn restless seas,Unstruck with life's more restless state?Where all are tost,And most are lost,By tides of passion, blasts of fate?The world's the main,How vext! how vain!Ambition swells, and anger foams;May good men find,Beneath the wind,A noiseless shore, unruffled homes![pg 179]The public sceneOf harden'd menTeach me, O teach me to despise!The world few knowBut to their woe,Our crimes with our experience rise;All tender senseIs banish'd thence,All maiden nature's first alarmsWhat shock'd beforeDisgust no more,And what disgusted has its charms.In landscapes greenTrue bliss is seen,With innocence, in shades, she sports;In wealthy townsProud labour frowns,And painted sorrow smiles in courts.These scenes untriedSeduc'd my pride,To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;Till wisdom came,A hoary dame!And told me pleasure was in rest."O may I stealAlong the valeOf humble life, secure from foes![pg 180]My friend sincere!My judgment clear!And gentle business my repose!"My mind be strongTo combat wrong!Grateful, O king! for favours shown!Soft to complainFor others' pain!And bold to triumph o'er my own!"(When fortune's kind)Acute to find,And warm to relish every boon!And wise to stillFantastic ill,Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!"No fruitless toils!No brainless broils!Each moment levell'd at the mark!Our day so shortInvites to sport;Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark."Yet, prudence, stillRein thou my will!What's most important, make most dear!For 'tis in thisResides true bliss;True bliss, a deity severe![pg 181]"When temper leansTo gayer scenes,And serious life void moments spares,The sylvan chaseMy sinews brace!Or song unbend my mind from cares!"Nor shun, my soul!The genial bowl,Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow!Ingredients these,Above, to pleaseThe laughing gods, the wise, below."Though rich the vine,More wit than wine,More sense than wit, good-will than art,May I provide!Fair truth, my pride!My joy, the converse of the heart!"The gloomy brow,The broken vow,To distant climes, ye gods! remove!The nobly soul'dTheir commerce holdWith words of truth and looks of love!"O glorious aim!O wealth supreme!Divine benevolence of soul![pg 182]That greatly glows,And freely flows,And in one blessing grasps the whole;"Prophetic schemes,And golden dreams,May I, unsanguine, cast away!Have, what I have!And live, not leave,Enamour'd of the present day!"My hours my own!My faults unknown!My chief revenue in content!Then, leave one beamOf honest fame!And scorn the labour'd monument!"Unhurt my urn!Till that great turnWhen mighty nature's self shall die!Time cease to glide,With human pride,Sunk in the ocean of eternity."

I think myself obliged to recommend to you a consideration of the greatest importance; and I should look upon it as a great happiness, if, at the beginning of my reign, I could see the foundation laid of so great and necessary a work, as the increase and encouragement of our seamen in general; that they may be invited, rather than compelled by force and violence, to enter into the service of their country, as oft as occasion shall require it: a consideration worthy the representatives of a people great and flourishing in trade and navigation. This leads me to mention to you the case of Greenwich Hospital, that care may be taken, by some addition to that fund, to render comfortable and effectual that charitable provision, for the support and maintenance of our seamen, worn out, and become decrepit by age and infirmities, in the service of their country.[Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]

[Speech, Jan. 27, 1727-8.]

To the King.—1728.Old ocean's praiseDemands my lays;A truly British theme I sing;A theme so great,I dare complete,And join with ocean, ocean's king.[pg 153]The Roman odeMajestic flow'd:Its stream divinely clear, and strong;In sense, and sound,Thebes roll'd profound;The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.Let Thebes, nor Rome,So fam'd, presumeTo triumph o'er a northern isle;Late time shall knowThe north can glow,If dread Augustus deign to smile.The naval crownIs all his own!Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,His will performsThrough waves and storms,And rides in triumph round the ball.No former race,With strong embrace,This theme to ravish durst aspire;With virgin charmsMy soul it warms,And melts melodious on my lyre.My lays I fileWith cautious toil;Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;[pg 154]On anvils neatYour strokes repeat;At every stroke the work refines!How music charms!How metre warms!Parent of actions, good and brave!How vice it tames!And worth inflames!And holds proud empire o'er the grave!Jove mark'd for manA scanty span,But lent him wings to fly his doom;Wit scorns the grave;To wit he gaveThe life of gods! immortal bloom!Since years will fly,And pleasures die,Day after day, as years advance;Since, while life lasts,Joy suffers blastsFrom frowning fate, and fickle chance;Nor life is long;But soon we throng,Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;We make, at least,Of bad the best,If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.[pg 155]Our strains divideThe laurel's pride;With those we lift to life, to live;By fame enroll'dWith heroes bold,And share the blessings which we give.What hero's praiseCan fire my lays,Like his, with whom my lay begun?"Justice sincere,And courage clear,Rise the two columns of his throne."How form'd for sway!Who look, obey;They read the monarch in his port:Their love and aweSupply the law;And his own lustre makes the court:"On yonder height,What golden lightTriumphant shines? and shines alone?Unrivall'd blaze!The nations gaze!'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.Our monarch, there,Rear'd high in air,Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;[pg 156]Like British oak,Derides the stroke;His blooming honours far extend!Beneath them lies,With lifted eyes,Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;While interest wingsBold foreign kingsTo fly, like eagles, to his shade.At his proud footThe sea, pour'd out,Immortal nourishment supplies;Thence wealth and state,And power and fate,Which Europe reads in George's eyes.From what we view,We take the clue,Which leads from great to greater thingMen doubt no more,But gods adore,When such resemblance shines in kings.

Old ocean's praiseDemands my lays;A truly British theme I sing;A theme so great,I dare complete,And join with ocean, ocean's king.

Old ocean's praise

Demands my lays;

A truly British theme I sing;

A theme so great,

I dare complete,

And join with ocean, ocean's king.

The Roman odeMajestic flow'd:Its stream divinely clear, and strong;In sense, and sound,Thebes roll'd profound;The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

The Roman ode

Majestic flow'd:

Its stream divinely clear, and strong;

In sense, and sound,

Thebes roll'd profound;

The torrent roar'd and foam'd along.

Let Thebes, nor Rome,So fam'd, presumeTo triumph o'er a northern isle;Late time shall knowThe north can glow,If dread Augustus deign to smile.

Let Thebes, nor Rome,

So fam'd, presume

To triumph o'er a northern isle;

Late time shall know

The north can glow,

If dread Augustus deign to smile.

The naval crownIs all his own!Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,His will performsThrough waves and storms,And rides in triumph round the ball.

The naval crown

Is all his own!

Our fleet, if war, or commerce, call,

His will performs

Through waves and storms,

And rides in triumph round the ball.

No former race,With strong embrace,This theme to ravish durst aspire;With virgin charmsMy soul it warms,And melts melodious on my lyre.

No former race,

With strong embrace,

This theme to ravish durst aspire;

With virgin charms

My soul it warms,

And melts melodious on my lyre.

My lays I fileWith cautious toil;Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;[pg 154]On anvils neatYour strokes repeat;At every stroke the work refines!

My lays I file

With cautious toil;

Ye graces! turn the glowing lines;

On anvils neat

Your strokes repeat;

At every stroke the work refines!

How music charms!How metre warms!Parent of actions, good and brave!How vice it tames!And worth inflames!And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

How music charms!

How metre warms!

Parent of actions, good and brave!

How vice it tames!

And worth inflames!

And holds proud empire o'er the grave!

Jove mark'd for manA scanty span,But lent him wings to fly his doom;Wit scorns the grave;To wit he gaveThe life of gods! immortal bloom!

Jove mark'd for man

A scanty span,

But lent him wings to fly his doom;

Wit scorns the grave;

To wit he gave

The life of gods! immortal bloom!

Since years will fly,And pleasures die,Day after day, as years advance;Since, while life lasts,Joy suffers blastsFrom frowning fate, and fickle chance;

Since years will fly,

And pleasures die,

Day after day, as years advance;

Since, while life lasts,

Joy suffers blasts

From frowning fate, and fickle chance;

Nor life is long;But soon we throng,Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;We make, at least,Of bad the best,If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.

Nor life is long;

But soon we throng,

Like autumn leaves, death's pallid shore;

We make, at least,

Of bad the best,

If in life's phantom, fame, we soar.

Our strains divideThe laurel's pride;With those we lift to life, to live;By fame enroll'dWith heroes bold,And share the blessings which we give.

Our strains divide

The laurel's pride;

With those we lift to life, to live;

By fame enroll'd

With heroes bold,

And share the blessings which we give.

What hero's praiseCan fire my lays,Like his, with whom my lay begun?"Justice sincere,And courage clear,Rise the two columns of his throne.

What hero's praise

Can fire my lays,

Like his, with whom my lay begun?

"Justice sincere,

And courage clear,

Rise the two columns of his throne.

"How form'd for sway!Who look, obey;They read the monarch in his port:Their love and aweSupply the law;And his own lustre makes the court:"

"How form'd for sway!

Who look, obey;

They read the monarch in his port:

Their love and awe

Supply the law;

And his own lustre makes the court:"

On yonder height,What golden lightTriumphant shines? and shines alone?Unrivall'd blaze!The nations gaze!'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

On yonder height,

What golden light

Triumphant shines? and shines alone?

Unrivall'd blaze!

The nations gaze!

'Tis not the sun; 'tis Britain's throne.

Our monarch, there,Rear'd high in air,Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;[pg 156]Like British oak,Derides the stroke;His blooming honours far extend!

Our monarch, there,

Rear'd high in air,

Should tempests rise, disdains to bend;

Like British oak,

Derides the stroke;

His blooming honours far extend!

Beneath them lies,With lifted eyes,Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;While interest wingsBold foreign kingsTo fly, like eagles, to his shade.

Beneath them lies,

With lifted eyes,

Fair Albion, like an amorous maid;

While interest wings

Bold foreign kings

To fly, like eagles, to his shade.

At his proud footThe sea, pour'd out,Immortal nourishment supplies;Thence wealth and state,And power and fate,Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

At his proud foot

The sea, pour'd out,

Immortal nourishment supplies;

Thence wealth and state,

And power and fate,

Which Europe reads in George's eyes.

From what we view,We take the clue,Which leads from great to greater thingMen doubt no more,But gods adore,When such resemblance shines in kings.

From what we view,

We take the clue,

Which leads from great to greater thing

Men doubt no more,

But gods adore,

When such resemblance shines in kings.

On Lyric Poetry.How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration for success in it.To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainlyNon hos quæsitum munus in usus.—Virg.He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.[pg 158]Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.Concordes animæ—dum nocte prementur;Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitæAttigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et cœlestibus armis,Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!Nec te ullæ facies, non terruit ipse TyphœusArduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens,Contemtorque Deûm Mezentius.Virg.[pg 159]But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it.The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some compositions, takes[pg 160]away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful error a pen can commit.Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow limits of their own comprehensions and relish.[pg 161]Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only, can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind.But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger; the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error: nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still admirable; and,[pg 162]Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judæa is to Scotland.Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to taste of her charms;Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;a danger which Horace declares he durst not run.Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.Sappho's Muse, like Lady ——, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the[pg 163]fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own understandings.But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express majesty, (viz.)Assumes the God,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres,are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great.For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That is, he must make[pg 164]rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, reputation to the poet.To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted; otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us[pg 165]their inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage are not so liable to the thief.The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects; which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"Versus inopes rerum, nugæque canoræ;if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country and my king.And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine[pg 166]air partakes more of the negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life—Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suæ pondus.—Petron.A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at a hair or a nail. And we know the cause wasQuia ponere totumNescius.Hor.To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its full extent.

How imperfect soever my own composition may be, yet am I willing to speak a word or two, of the nature of lyric poetry; to show that I have, at least, some idea of perfection in that kind of poem in which I am engaged; and that I do not think myself poet enough entirely to rely on inspiration for success in it.

To our having, or not having, this idea of perfection in the poem we undertake, is chiefly owing the merit or demerit of our performances, as also the modesty or vanity of our opinions concerning them. And in speaking of it I shall show how it unavoidably comes to pass, that bad poets, that is, poets in general, are esteemed, and really are, the most vain, the most irritable, and most ridiculous set of men upon earth. But poetry in its own nature is certainly

Non hos quæsitum munus in usus.—Virg.

Non hos quæsitum munus in usus.

—Virg.

He that has an idea of perfection in the work he undertakes may fail in it; he that has not, must: and yet he will be vain. For every little degree of beauty, how short or improper soever, will be looked on fondly by him; because it is all pure gains, and more than he promised to himself; and because he has no test, or standard in his judgment, with which to chastise his opinion of it.

Now this idea of perfection is, in poetry, more refined than in other kinds of writing; and because more refined, therefore more difficult; and because more difficult, therefore more rarely attained; and the non-attainment of it is, as I have said, the source of our vanity. Hence the poetic clan are more obnoxious to vanity than others. And from vanity consequently flows that great sensibility of disrespect, that quick resentment, that tinder of the mind that kindles at every spark, and justly marks them out for the genus irritabile among mankind. And from this combustible temper, this serious anger for no very serious things, things looked on by most as foreign to the important points of life, as consequentially flows that inheritance of ridicule, which devolves on them, from generation to generation. As soon as they become authors, they become like Ben Jonson's angry boy, and learn the art of quarrel.

Concordes animæ—dum nocte prementur;Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitæAttigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et cœlestibus armis,Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!Nec te ullæ facies, non terruit ipse TyphœusArduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens,Contemtorque Deûm Mezentius.Virg.

Concordes animæ—dum nocte prementur;

Heu! quantum inter se bellum, si lumina vitæ

Attigerint, quantas acies stragemque ciebunt!

Qui Juvenes! quantas ostentant, aspice, vires.

Ne, pueri! ne tanta animis assuescite bella.

Tuque prior, tu parce, genus qui ducis Olympo,

Sidereo flagrans clypeo, et cœlestibus armis,

Projice tela manu, sanguis meus!

Nec te ullæ facies, non terruit ipse Typhœus

Arduus, arma tenens; non te Messapus et Ufens,

Contemtorque Deûm Mezentius.

Virg.

But to return. He that has this idea of perfection in the work he undertakes, however successful he is, will yet be modest; because to rise up to that idea, which he proposed for his model, is almost, if not absolutely, impossible.

These two observations account for what may seem as strange, as it is infallibly true; I mean, they show us why good writers have the lowest, and bad writers the highest, opinion of their own performances. They who have only a partial idea of this perfection, as their portion of ignorance or knowledge of it is greater or less, have proportionable degrees of modesty or conceit.

Nor, though natural good understanding makes a tolerably just judgment in things of this nature, will the reader judge the worse, for forming to himself a notion of what he ought to expect from the piece he has in hand, before he begins his perusal of it.

The ode, as it is the eldest kind of poetry, so it is more spiritous, and more remote from prose, than any other, in sense, sound, expression, and conduct. Its thoughts should be uncommon, sublime, and moral; its numbers full, easy, and most harmonious; its expression pure, strong, delicate, yet unaffected; and of a curious felicity beyond other poems; its conduct should be rapturous, somewhat abrupt, and immethodical to a vulgar eye. That apparent order, and connexion, which gives form and life to some compositions, takes[pg 160]away the very soul of this. Fire, elevation, and select thought, are indispensable; an humble, tame, and vulgar ode is the most pitiful error a pen can commit.

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum.

And as its subjects are sublime, its writer's genius should be so too; otherwise it becomes the meanest thing in writing, viz. an involuntary burlesque.

It is the genuine character, and true merit of the ode, a little to startle some apprehensions. Men of cold complexions are very apt to mistake a want of vigour in their imaginations, for a delicacy of taste in their judgments; and, like persons of a tender sight, they look on bright objects, in their natural lustre, as too glaring; what is most delightful to a stronger eye, is painful to them. Thus Pindar, who has as much logic at the bottom as Aristotle or Euclid, to some critics has appeared as mad; and must appear so to all who enjoy no portion of his own divine spirit. Dwarf understandings, measuring others by their own standard, are apt to think they see a monster, when they see a man.

And indeed it seems to be the amends which nature makes to those whom she has not blessed with an elevation of mind, to indulge them in the comfortable mistake, that all is wrong, which falls not within the narrow limits of their own comprehensions and relish.

Judgment, indeed, that masculine power of the mind, in ode, as in all compositions, should bear the supreme sway; and a beautiful imagination, as its mistress, should be subdued to its dominion. Hence, and hence only, can proceed the fairest offspring of the human mind.

But then in ode, there is this difference from other kinds of poetry; that, there, the imagination, like a very beautiful mistress, is indulged in the appearance of domineering; though the judgment, like an artful lover, in reality carries its point; and the less it is suspected of it, it shows the more masterly conduct, and deserves the greater commendation.

It holds true in this province of writing, as in war, "The more danger; the more honour." It must be very enterprising: it must, in Shakespeare's style, have hairbreadth 'scapes; and often tread the very brink of error: nor can it ever deserve the applause of the real judge, unless it renders itself obnoxious to the misapprehensions of the contrary.

Such is Casimire's strain among the moderns, whose lively wit, and happy fire, is an honour to them. And Buchanan might justly be much admired, if any thing more than the sweetness of his numbers, and the purity of his diction, were his own: his original, from which I have taken my motto, through all the disadvantages of a northern prose translation, is still admirable; and,[pg 162]Cowley says, as preferable in beauty to Buchanan, as Judæa is to Scotland.

Pindar, Anacreon, Sappho, and Horace, are the great masters of lyric poetry among Heathen writers. Pindar's muse, like Sacharissa, is a stately, imperious, and accomplished beauty; equally disdaining the use of art, and the fear of any rival; so intoxicating that it was the highest commendation that could be given an ancient, that he was not afraid to taste of her charms;

Pindarici fontis qui non expalluit haustus;

a danger which Horace declares he durst not run.

Anacreon's Muse is like Amoret, most sweet, natural, and delicate; all over flowers, graces, and charms; inspiring complacency, not awe; and she seems to have good nature enough to admit a rival, which she cannot find.

Sappho's Muse, like Lady ——, is passionately tender, and glowing; like oil set on fire, she is soft, and warm, in excess. Sappho has left us a few fragments only; time has swallowed the rest; but that little which remains, like the remaining jewel of Cleopatra, after the other was dissolved at her banquet, may be esteemed (as was that jewel) a sufficient ornament for the goddess of beauty herself.

Horace's Muse (like one I shall not presume to name) is correct, solid, and moral; she joins all the sweetness and majesty, all the sense and the[pg 163]fire of the former, in the justest proportions and degrees; superadding a felicity of dress entirely her own. She moreover is distinguishable by this particularity, that she abounds in hidden graces, and secret charms, which none but the discerning can discover; nor are any capable of doing full justice, in their opinion to her excellencies, without giving the world, at the same time, an incontestable proof of refinement in their own understandings.

But, after all, to the honour of our own country I must add, that I think Mr. Dryden's Ode on St. Cecilia's Day inferior to no composition of this kind. Its chief beauty consists in adapting the numbers most happily to the variety of the occasion. Those by which he has chosen to express majesty, (viz.)

Assumes the God,Affects to nod,And seems to shake the spheres,

Assumes the God,

Affects to nod,

And seems to shake the spheres,

are chosen in the following ode, because the subject of it is great.

For the more harmony likewise, I chose the frequent return of rhyme; which laid me under great difficulties. But difficulties overcome give grace and pleasure. Nor can I account for the pleasure of rhyme in general (of which the moderns are too fond) but from this truth.

But then the writer must take care that the difficulty is overcome. That is, he must make[pg 164]rhyme consistent with as perfect sense, and expression, as could be expected if he was free from that shackle. Otherwise, it gives neither grace to the work, nor pleasure to the reader, nor, consequently, reputation to the poet.

To sum the whole: ode should be peculiar, but not strained; moral, but not flat; natural, but not obvious; delicate, but not affected; noble, but not ambitious; full, but not obscure; fiery, but not mad; thick, but not loaded in its numbers, which should be most harmonious, without the least sacrifice of expression, or of sense. Above all, in this, as in every work of genius, somewhat of an original spirit should be, at least attempted; otherwise the poet, whose character disclaims mediocrity, makes a secondary praise his ultimate ambition; which has something of a contradiction in it. Originals only have true life, and differ as much from the best imitations, as men from the most animated pictures of them. Nor is what I say at all inconsistent with a due deference for the great standards of antiquity; nay, that very deference is an argument for it, for doubtless their example is on my side in this matter. And we should rather imitate their example in the general motives, and fundamental methods of their working, than in their works themselves. This is a distinction, I think, not hitherto made, and a distinction of consequence. For the first may make us their equals; the second must pronounce us[pg 165]their inferiors even in our utmost success. But the first of these prizes is not so readily taken by the moderns; as valuables too massy for easy carriage are not so liable to the thief.

The ancients had a particular regard to the choice of their subjects; which were generally national and great. My subject is, in its own nature, noble; most proper for an Englishman; never more proper than on this occasion; and (what is strange) hitherto unsung.

If I stand not absolutely condemned by my own rules; if I have hit the spirit of ode in general; if I cannot think with Mr. Cowley, that "Music alone, sometimes, makes an excellent ode;"

Versus inopes rerum, nugæque canoræ;

if there is any thought, enthusiasm, and picture, which are as the body, soul, and robe of poetry; in a word, if in any degree I have provided rather food for men, than air for wits; I hope smaller faults will meet indulgence for the sake of the design, which is the glory of my country and my king.

And indeed, this may be said, in general, that great subjects are above being nice; that dignity and spirit ever suffer from scrupulous exactness; And that the minuter cares effeminate a composition. Great masters of poetry, painting, and statuary, in their nobler works, have even affected the contrary: and justly; for a truly masculine[pg 166]air partakes more of the negligent, than of the neat, both in writings, and in life—

Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suæ pondus.—Petron.

Grandis oratio haberet majestatis suæ pondus.

—Petron.

A poem, like a criminal, under too severe correction, may lose all its spirit, and expire. We know it was Faberrimus, that was such an artist at a hair or a nail. And we know the cause was

Quia ponere totumNescius.Hor.

Quia ponere totumNescius.

Quia ponere totum

Nescius.

Hor.

To close: if a piece of this nature wants an apology, I must own, that those who have strength of mind sufficient profitably to devote the whole of their time to the severer studies, I despair of imitating, I can only envy and admire. The mind is relieved and strengthened by variety; and he that sometimes is sporting with his pen, is only taking the most effectual means of giving a general importance to it. This truth is clear from the knowledge of human nature, and of history; from which I could cite very celebrated instances, did I not fear that, by citing them, I should condemn myself, who am so little qualified to follow their example in its full extent.

[pg 167]Ocean. An Ode.Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.PsalmXCVIII.Sweet rural scene!Of flocks and green!At careless ease my limbs are spread;All nature still,But yonder rill;And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:In prospect wide,The boundless tide!Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;Without a breeze,The curling seasDance on, in measure to the shore.Who sings the sourceOf wealth and force?Vast field of commerce, and big war,Where wonders dwell!Where terrors swell!And Neptune thunders from his car?Where? where are they,Whom Pæan's rayHas touch'd, and bid divinely rave?—[pg 168]What! none aspire?I snatch the lyre,And plunge into the foaming wave.The wave resounds!The rock rebounds!The Nereids to my song reply!I lead the choir,And they conspire,With voice and shell, to lift it high.They spread in airTheir bosoms fair,Their verdant tresses pour behind:The billows beatWith nimble feet,With notes triumphant swell the wind.Who love the shore,Let those adoreThe god Apollo, and his Nine,Parnassus' hill,And Orpheus' skill;But let Arion's harp be mine.The main! the main!Is Britain's reign;Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:The main! the main!Be Britain's strain;As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.[pg 169]Thro' nature wideIs nought descriedSo rich in pleasure or surprise;When all-serene,How sweet the scene!How dreadful, when the billows rise;And storms defaceThe fluid glass,In which erewhile Britannia fairLook'd down with pride,Like Ocean's bride,Adjusting her majestic air!When tempests cease,And, hush'd in peace,The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,Deep silence keep,And seem to sleepRecumbent on their oozy bed;With what a trance,The level glance,Unbroken, shoots along the seas!Which tempt from shoreThe painted oar;And every canvass courts the breeze!When rushes forthThe frowning northOn black'ning billows, with what dread[pg 170]My shuddering soulBeholds them roll,And hears their roarings o'er my head!With terror markYon flying bark!Now center-deep descend the brave;Now, toss'd on high,It takes the sky,A feather on the tow'ring wave!Now spins aroundIn whirls profound:Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;Now stunn'd, it reels'Midst thunder's peals:And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.All ether burns!Chaos returns!And blends, once more, the seas and skies:No space betweenThy bosom green,O deep! and the blue concave, lies.The northern blast,The shatter'd mast,The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,The breaking spout,The stars gone out,The boiling streight, the monsters shock,[pg 171]Let others fear;To Britain dearWhate'er promotes her daring claim;Those terrors charm,Which keep her warmIn chase of honest gain, or fame.The stars are brightTo cheer the night,And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire;And Phœbus' flames,With burnish'd beams,Which some adore, and all admire.Are then the seasOutshone by these?Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;With kinder beams,And softer gleams,Thy bosom wears them as thy own.There, set in green,Gold stars are seen,A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;And when the sunHis race has run,He falls enamour'd in thy lap.Those clouds, whose dyesAdorn the skies,That silver snow, that pearly rain,[pg 172]Has Phœbus stoleTo grace the pole,The plunder of th' invaded main!The gaudy bow,Whose colours glow,Whose arch with so much skill is bent,To Phœbus' ray,Which paints so gay,By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.In chambers deep,Where waters sleep,What unknown treasures pave the floor!The pearl, in rows,Pale lustre throws;The wealth immense, which storms devour.From Indian mines,With proud designs,The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;The tempests rise,And seize the prize,And toss him breathless on the shore.His son complainsIn pious strains,"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;Then ploughs the main,In zeal for gain,The tears yet swelling in his eyes.[pg 173]Thou wat'ry vast!What mounds are castTo bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!Thy proudest foamMust know its home;But rage of gold disdains a shore.Gold pleasure buys;But pleasure dies,Too soon the gross fruition cloys;Tho' raptures court,The sense is short;But virtue kindles living joys;Joys felt alone!Joys ask'd of none!Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:Joys that subsist,Tho' fates resist,An unprecarious, endless bliss!The soul refin'dIs most inclin'dTo every moral excellence;All vice is dull,A knave's a fool;And virtue is the child of sense.The virtuous mind,Nor wave, nor wind,Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,[pg 174]The shaken ball,Nor planet's fall,From its firm basis can dethrone.This Britain knows,And therefore glowsWith gen'rous passions, and expendsHer wealth and zealOn public weal,And brightens both by god-like ends.What end so greatAs that which lateAwoke the genius of the main;Which tow'ring roseWith George to close,And rival great Eliza's reign?A voice has flownFrom Britain's throneTo re-inflame a grand design;That voice shall rearYon23fabric fair,As nature's rose at the divine.When nature sprung,Blest angels sung,And shouted o'er the rising ball;[pg 175]For strains as highAs man's can fly,These sea-devoted honours call.From boist'rous seas,The lap of easeReceives our wounded, and our old;High domes ascend!Stretch'd arches bend!Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!Here, soft reclin'd,From wave, from wind,And fortune's tempest safe ashore,To cheat their care,Of former warThey talk the pleasing shadows o'er.In lengthen'd tales,Our fleet prevails;In tales the lenitives of age!And o'er the bowl,They fire the soulOf list'ning youth, to martial rage.Unhappy they!And falsely gay!Who bask for ever in success;A constant feastQuite palls the taste,And long enjoyment is distress.[pg 176]When, after toil,His native soilThe panting mariner regains,What transport flowsFrom bare repose!We reap our pleasure from our pains.Ye warlike slain!Beneath the main,Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet;Who bought with bloodYour country's good,Your country's24full-blown glory greet.What pow'rful charmCan death disarm?Your long, your iron slumbers break?By Jove, by Fame,By George's name,Awake! awake! awake! awake!With spiral shell,Full blasted, tell,That all your wat'ry realms should ring;Your pearl alcoves,Your coral groves,Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.[pg 177]As long as starsGuide mariners,As Carolina's virtues please,Or suns inviteThe ravish'd sight,The British flag shall sweep the seas.Peculiar both!Our soil's strong growth,And our bold natives' hardy mind;Sure heaven bespokeOur hearts and oak,To give a master to mankind.That noblest birthOf teeming earth,Of forests fair, that daughter proud,To foreign coastsOur grandeur boasts,And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:Now big with war,Sends fate from far,If rebel realms their fate demand,Now, sumptuous spoilsOf foreign soilsPours in the bosom of our land.Hence Britain laysIn scales, and weighsThe fate of kingdoms, and of kings;[pg 178]And as she frowns,Or smiles, on crownsA night, or day of glory, springs.Thus ocean swellsThe streams and rills,And to their borders lifts them high;Or else withdrawsThe mighty cause,And leaves their famish'd channels dry.How mixt, how frail,How sure to fail,Is every pleasure of mankind!A damp destroysMy blooming joys,While Britain's glory fires my mind.For who can gazeOn restless seas,Unstruck with life's more restless state?Where all are tost,And most are lost,By tides of passion, blasts of fate?The world's the main,How vext! how vain!Ambition swells, and anger foams;May good men find,Beneath the wind,A noiseless shore, unruffled homes![pg 179]The public sceneOf harden'd menTeach me, O teach me to despise!The world few knowBut to their woe,Our crimes with our experience rise;All tender senseIs banish'd thence,All maiden nature's first alarmsWhat shock'd beforeDisgust no more,And what disgusted has its charms.In landscapes greenTrue bliss is seen,With innocence, in shades, she sports;In wealthy townsProud labour frowns,And painted sorrow smiles in courts.These scenes untriedSeduc'd my pride,To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;Till wisdom came,A hoary dame!And told me pleasure was in rest."O may I stealAlong the valeOf humble life, secure from foes![pg 180]My friend sincere!My judgment clear!And gentle business my repose!"My mind be strongTo combat wrong!Grateful, O king! for favours shown!Soft to complainFor others' pain!And bold to triumph o'er my own!"(When fortune's kind)Acute to find,And warm to relish every boon!And wise to stillFantastic ill,Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!"No fruitless toils!No brainless broils!Each moment levell'd at the mark!Our day so shortInvites to sport;Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark."Yet, prudence, stillRein thou my will!What's most important, make most dear!For 'tis in thisResides true bliss;True bliss, a deity severe![pg 181]"When temper leansTo gayer scenes,And serious life void moments spares,The sylvan chaseMy sinews brace!Or song unbend my mind from cares!"Nor shun, my soul!The genial bowl,Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow!Ingredients these,Above, to pleaseThe laughing gods, the wise, below."Though rich the vine,More wit than wine,More sense than wit, good-will than art,May I provide!Fair truth, my pride!My joy, the converse of the heart!"The gloomy brow,The broken vow,To distant climes, ye gods! remove!The nobly soul'dTheir commerce holdWith words of truth and looks of love!"O glorious aim!O wealth supreme!Divine benevolence of soul![pg 182]That greatly glows,And freely flows,And in one blessing grasps the whole;"Prophetic schemes,And golden dreams,May I, unsanguine, cast away!Have, what I have!And live, not leave,Enamour'd of the present day!"My hours my own!My faults unknown!My chief revenue in content!Then, leave one beamOf honest fame!And scorn the labour'd monument!"Unhurt my urn!Till that great turnWhen mighty nature's self shall die!Time cease to glide,With human pride,Sunk in the ocean of eternity."

Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.PsalmXCVIII.

Let the sea make a noise, let the floods clap their hands.

PsalmXCVIII.

Sweet rural scene!Of flocks and green!At careless ease my limbs are spread;All nature still,But yonder rill;And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:

Sweet rural scene!

Of flocks and green!

At careless ease my limbs are spread;

All nature still,

But yonder rill;

And list'ning pines nod o'er my head:

In prospect wide,The boundless tide!Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;Without a breeze,The curling seasDance on, in measure to the shore.

In prospect wide,

The boundless tide!

Waves cease to foam, and winds to roar;

Without a breeze,

The curling seas

Dance on, in measure to the shore.

Who sings the sourceOf wealth and force?Vast field of commerce, and big war,Where wonders dwell!Where terrors swell!And Neptune thunders from his car?

Who sings the source

Of wealth and force?

Vast field of commerce, and big war,

Where wonders dwell!

Where terrors swell!

And Neptune thunders from his car?

Where? where are they,Whom Pæan's rayHas touch'd, and bid divinely rave?—[pg 168]What! none aspire?I snatch the lyre,And plunge into the foaming wave.

Where? where are they,

Whom Pæan's ray

Has touch'd, and bid divinely rave?—

What! none aspire?

I snatch the lyre,

And plunge into the foaming wave.

The wave resounds!The rock rebounds!The Nereids to my song reply!I lead the choir,And they conspire,With voice and shell, to lift it high.

The wave resounds!

The rock rebounds!

The Nereids to my song reply!

I lead the choir,

And they conspire,

With voice and shell, to lift it high.

They spread in airTheir bosoms fair,Their verdant tresses pour behind:The billows beatWith nimble feet,With notes triumphant swell the wind.

They spread in air

Their bosoms fair,

Their verdant tresses pour behind:

The billows beat

With nimble feet,

With notes triumphant swell the wind.

Who love the shore,Let those adoreThe god Apollo, and his Nine,Parnassus' hill,And Orpheus' skill;But let Arion's harp be mine.

Who love the shore,

Let those adore

The god Apollo, and his Nine,

Parnassus' hill,

And Orpheus' skill;

But let Arion's harp be mine.

The main! the main!Is Britain's reign;Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:The main! the main!Be Britain's strain;As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

The main! the main!

Is Britain's reign;

Her strength, her glory, is her fleet:

The main! the main!

Be Britain's strain;

As Tritons strong, as Syrens sweet.

Thro' nature wideIs nought descriedSo rich in pleasure or surprise;When all-serene,How sweet the scene!How dreadful, when the billows rise;

Thro' nature wide

Is nought descried

So rich in pleasure or surprise;

When all-serene,

How sweet the scene!

How dreadful, when the billows rise;

And storms defaceThe fluid glass,In which erewhile Britannia fairLook'd down with pride,Like Ocean's bride,Adjusting her majestic air!

And storms deface

The fluid glass,

In which erewhile Britannia fair

Look'd down with pride,

Like Ocean's bride,

Adjusting her majestic air!

When tempests cease,And, hush'd in peace,The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,Deep silence keep,And seem to sleepRecumbent on their oozy bed;

When tempests cease,

And, hush'd in peace,

The flatten'd surges smoothly spread,

Deep silence keep,

And seem to sleep

Recumbent on their oozy bed;

With what a trance,The level glance,Unbroken, shoots along the seas!Which tempt from shoreThe painted oar;And every canvass courts the breeze!

With what a trance,

The level glance,

Unbroken, shoots along the seas!

Which tempt from shore

The painted oar;

And every canvass courts the breeze!

When rushes forthThe frowning northOn black'ning billows, with what dread[pg 170]My shuddering soulBeholds them roll,And hears their roarings o'er my head!

When rushes forth

The frowning north

On black'ning billows, with what dread

My shuddering soul

Beholds them roll,

And hears their roarings o'er my head!

With terror markYon flying bark!Now center-deep descend the brave;Now, toss'd on high,It takes the sky,A feather on the tow'ring wave!

With terror mark

Yon flying bark!

Now center-deep descend the brave;

Now, toss'd on high,

It takes the sky,

A feather on the tow'ring wave!

Now spins aroundIn whirls profound:Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;Now stunn'd, it reels'Midst thunder's peals:And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

Now spins around

In whirls profound:

Now whelm'd; now pendant near the clouds;

Now stunn'd, it reels

'Midst thunder's peals:

And now fierce lightning fires the shrouds.

All ether burns!Chaos returns!And blends, once more, the seas and skies:No space betweenThy bosom green,O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

All ether burns!

Chaos returns!

And blends, once more, the seas and skies:

No space between

Thy bosom green,

O deep! and the blue concave, lies.

The northern blast,The shatter'd mast,The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,The breaking spout,The stars gone out,The boiling streight, the monsters shock,

The northern blast,

The shatter'd mast,

The syrt, the whirlpool, and the rock,

The breaking spout,

The stars gone out,

The boiling streight, the monsters shock,

Let others fear;To Britain dearWhate'er promotes her daring claim;Those terrors charm,Which keep her warmIn chase of honest gain, or fame.

Let others fear;

To Britain dear

Whate'er promotes her daring claim;

Those terrors charm,

Which keep her warm

In chase of honest gain, or fame.

The stars are brightTo cheer the night,And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire;And Phœbus' flames,With burnish'd beams,Which some adore, and all admire.

The stars are bright

To cheer the night,

And shed, thro' shadows, temper'd fire;

And Phœbus' flames,

With burnish'd beams,

Which some adore, and all admire.

Are then the seasOutshone by these?Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;With kinder beams,And softer gleams,Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

Are then the seas

Outshone by these?

Bright Thetis! thou art not outshone;

With kinder beams,

And softer gleams,

Thy bosom wears them as thy own.

There, set in green,Gold stars are seen,A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;And when the sunHis race has run,He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

There, set in green,

Gold stars are seen,

A mantle rich! thy charms to wrap;

And when the sun

His race has run,

He falls enamour'd in thy lap.

Those clouds, whose dyesAdorn the skies,That silver snow, that pearly rain,[pg 172]Has Phœbus stoleTo grace the pole,The plunder of th' invaded main!

Those clouds, whose dyes

Adorn the skies,

That silver snow, that pearly rain,

Has Phœbus stole

To grace the pole,

The plunder of th' invaded main!

The gaudy bow,Whose colours glow,Whose arch with so much skill is bent,To Phœbus' ray,Which paints so gay,By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.

The gaudy bow,

Whose colours glow,

Whose arch with so much skill is bent,

To Phœbus' ray,

Which paints so gay,

By thee the wat'ry woof was lent.

In chambers deep,Where waters sleep,What unknown treasures pave the floor!The pearl, in rows,Pale lustre throws;The wealth immense, which storms devour.

In chambers deep,

Where waters sleep,

What unknown treasures pave the floor!

The pearl, in rows,

Pale lustre throws;

The wealth immense, which storms devour.

From Indian mines,With proud designs,The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;The tempests rise,And seize the prize,And toss him breathless on the shore.

From Indian mines,

With proud designs,

The merchant, swoln, digs golden ore;

The tempests rise,

And seize the prize,

And toss him breathless on the shore.

His son complainsIn pious strains,"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;Then ploughs the main,In zeal for gain,The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

His son complains

In pious strains,

"Ah cruel thirst of gold!" he cries;

Then ploughs the main,

In zeal for gain,

The tears yet swelling in his eyes.

Thou wat'ry vast!What mounds are castTo bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!Thy proudest foamMust know its home;But rage of gold disdains a shore.

Thou wat'ry vast!

What mounds are cast

To bar thy dreadful flowings o'er!

Thy proudest foam

Must know its home;

But rage of gold disdains a shore.

Gold pleasure buys;But pleasure dies,Too soon the gross fruition cloys;Tho' raptures court,The sense is short;But virtue kindles living joys;

Gold pleasure buys;

But pleasure dies,

Too soon the gross fruition cloys;

Tho' raptures court,

The sense is short;

But virtue kindles living joys;

Joys felt alone!Joys ask'd of none!Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:Joys that subsist,Tho' fates resist,An unprecarious, endless bliss!

Joys felt alone!

Joys ask'd of none!

Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:

Joys that subsist,

Tho' fates resist,

An unprecarious, endless bliss!

The soul refin'dIs most inclin'dTo every moral excellence;All vice is dull,A knave's a fool;And virtue is the child of sense.

The soul refin'd

Is most inclin'd

To every moral excellence;

All vice is dull,

A knave's a fool;

And virtue is the child of sense.

The virtuous mind,Nor wave, nor wind,Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,[pg 174]The shaken ball,Nor planet's fall,From its firm basis can dethrone.

The virtuous mind,

Nor wave, nor wind,

Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,

The shaken ball,

Nor planet's fall,

From its firm basis can dethrone.

This Britain knows,And therefore glowsWith gen'rous passions, and expendsHer wealth and zealOn public weal,And brightens both by god-like ends.

This Britain knows,

And therefore glows

With gen'rous passions, and expends

Her wealth and zeal

On public weal,

And brightens both by god-like ends.

What end so greatAs that which lateAwoke the genius of the main;Which tow'ring roseWith George to close,And rival great Eliza's reign?

What end so great

As that which late

Awoke the genius of the main;

Which tow'ring rose

With George to close,

And rival great Eliza's reign?

A voice has flownFrom Britain's throneTo re-inflame a grand design;That voice shall rearYon23fabric fair,As nature's rose at the divine.

A voice has flown

From Britain's throne

To re-inflame a grand design;

That voice shall rear

Yon23fabric fair,

As nature's rose at the divine.

When nature sprung,Blest angels sung,And shouted o'er the rising ball;[pg 175]For strains as highAs man's can fly,These sea-devoted honours call.

When nature sprung,

Blest angels sung,

And shouted o'er the rising ball;

For strains as high

As man's can fly,

These sea-devoted honours call.

From boist'rous seas,The lap of easeReceives our wounded, and our old;High domes ascend!Stretch'd arches bend!Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!

From boist'rous seas,

The lap of ease

Receives our wounded, and our old;

High domes ascend!

Stretch'd arches bend!

Proud columns swell! wide gates unfold!

Here, soft reclin'd,From wave, from wind,And fortune's tempest safe ashore,To cheat their care,Of former warThey talk the pleasing shadows o'er.

Here, soft reclin'd,

From wave, from wind,

And fortune's tempest safe ashore,

To cheat their care,

Of former war

They talk the pleasing shadows o'er.

In lengthen'd tales,Our fleet prevails;In tales the lenitives of age!And o'er the bowl,They fire the soulOf list'ning youth, to martial rage.

In lengthen'd tales,

Our fleet prevails;

In tales the lenitives of age!

And o'er the bowl,

They fire the soul

Of list'ning youth, to martial rage.

Unhappy they!And falsely gay!Who bask for ever in success;A constant feastQuite palls the taste,And long enjoyment is distress.

Unhappy they!

And falsely gay!

Who bask for ever in success;

A constant feast

Quite palls the taste,

And long enjoyment is distress.

When, after toil,His native soilThe panting mariner regains,What transport flowsFrom bare repose!We reap our pleasure from our pains.

When, after toil,

His native soil

The panting mariner regains,

What transport flows

From bare repose!

We reap our pleasure from our pains.

Ye warlike slain!Beneath the main,Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet;Who bought with bloodYour country's good,Your country's24full-blown glory greet.

Ye warlike slain!

Beneath the main,

Wrapt in a wat'ry winding sheet;

Who bought with blood

Your country's good,

Your country's24full-blown glory greet.

What pow'rful charmCan death disarm?Your long, your iron slumbers break?By Jove, by Fame,By George's name,Awake! awake! awake! awake!

What pow'rful charm

Can death disarm?

Your long, your iron slumbers break?

By Jove, by Fame,

By George's name,

Awake! awake! awake! awake!

With spiral shell,Full blasted, tell,That all your wat'ry realms should ring;Your pearl alcoves,Your coral groves,Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.

With spiral shell,

Full blasted, tell,

That all your wat'ry realms should ring;

Your pearl alcoves,

Your coral groves,

Should echo theirs, and Britain's king.

As long as starsGuide mariners,As Carolina's virtues please,Or suns inviteThe ravish'd sight,The British flag shall sweep the seas.

As long as stars

Guide mariners,

As Carolina's virtues please,

Or suns invite

The ravish'd sight,

The British flag shall sweep the seas.

Peculiar both!Our soil's strong growth,And our bold natives' hardy mind;Sure heaven bespokeOur hearts and oak,To give a master to mankind.

Peculiar both!

Our soil's strong growth,

And our bold natives' hardy mind;

Sure heaven bespoke

Our hearts and oak,

To give a master to mankind.

That noblest birthOf teeming earth,Of forests fair, that daughter proud,To foreign coastsOur grandeur boasts,And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:

That noblest birth

Of teeming earth,

Of forests fair, that daughter proud,

To foreign coasts

Our grandeur boasts,

And Britain's pleasure speaks aloud:

Now big with war,Sends fate from far,If rebel realms their fate demand,Now, sumptuous spoilsOf foreign soilsPours in the bosom of our land.

Now big with war,

Sends fate from far,

If rebel realms their fate demand,

Now, sumptuous spoils

Of foreign soils

Pours in the bosom of our land.

Hence Britain laysIn scales, and weighsThe fate of kingdoms, and of kings;[pg 178]And as she frowns,Or smiles, on crownsA night, or day of glory, springs.

Hence Britain lays

In scales, and weighs

The fate of kingdoms, and of kings;

And as she frowns,

Or smiles, on crowns

A night, or day of glory, springs.

Thus ocean swellsThe streams and rills,And to their borders lifts them high;Or else withdrawsThe mighty cause,And leaves their famish'd channels dry.

Thus ocean swells

The streams and rills,

And to their borders lifts them high;

Or else withdraws

The mighty cause,

And leaves their famish'd channels dry.

How mixt, how frail,How sure to fail,Is every pleasure of mankind!A damp destroysMy blooming joys,While Britain's glory fires my mind.

How mixt, how frail,

How sure to fail,

Is every pleasure of mankind!

A damp destroys

My blooming joys,

While Britain's glory fires my mind.

For who can gazeOn restless seas,Unstruck with life's more restless state?Where all are tost,And most are lost,By tides of passion, blasts of fate?

For who can gaze

On restless seas,

Unstruck with life's more restless state?

Where all are tost,

And most are lost,

By tides of passion, blasts of fate?

The world's the main,How vext! how vain!Ambition swells, and anger foams;May good men find,Beneath the wind,A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!

The world's the main,

How vext! how vain!

Ambition swells, and anger foams;

May good men find,

Beneath the wind,

A noiseless shore, unruffled homes!

The public sceneOf harden'd menTeach me, O teach me to despise!The world few knowBut to their woe,Our crimes with our experience rise;

The public scene

Of harden'd men

Teach me, O teach me to despise!

The world few know

But to their woe,

Our crimes with our experience rise;

All tender senseIs banish'd thence,All maiden nature's first alarmsWhat shock'd beforeDisgust no more,And what disgusted has its charms.

All tender sense

Is banish'd thence,

All maiden nature's first alarms

What shock'd before

Disgust no more,

And what disgusted has its charms.

In landscapes greenTrue bliss is seen,With innocence, in shades, she sports;In wealthy townsProud labour frowns,And painted sorrow smiles in courts.

In landscapes green

True bliss is seen,

With innocence, in shades, she sports;

In wealthy towns

Proud labour frowns,

And painted sorrow smiles in courts.

These scenes untriedSeduc'd my pride,To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;Till wisdom came,A hoary dame!And told me pleasure was in rest.

These scenes untried

Seduc'd my pride,

To fortune's arrows bar'd my breast;

Till wisdom came,

A hoary dame!

And told me pleasure was in rest.

"O may I stealAlong the valeOf humble life, secure from foes![pg 180]My friend sincere!My judgment clear!And gentle business my repose!

"O may I steal

Along the vale

Of humble life, secure from foes!

My friend sincere!

My judgment clear!

And gentle business my repose!

"My mind be strongTo combat wrong!Grateful, O king! for favours shown!Soft to complainFor others' pain!And bold to triumph o'er my own!

"My mind be strong

To combat wrong!

Grateful, O king! for favours shown!

Soft to complain

For others' pain!

And bold to triumph o'er my own!

"(When fortune's kind)Acute to find,And warm to relish every boon!And wise to stillFantastic ill,Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!

"(When fortune's kind)

Acute to find,

And warm to relish every boon!

And wise to still

Fantastic ill,

Whose frightful spectres stalk at noon!

"No fruitless toils!No brainless broils!Each moment levell'd at the mark!Our day so shortInvites to sport;Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark.

"No fruitless toils!

No brainless broils!

Each moment levell'd at the mark!

Our day so short

Invites to sport;

Be sad and solemn when 'tis dark.

"Yet, prudence, stillRein thou my will!What's most important, make most dear!For 'tis in thisResides true bliss;True bliss, a deity severe!

"Yet, prudence, still

Rein thou my will!

What's most important, make most dear!

For 'tis in this

Resides true bliss;

True bliss, a deity severe!

"When temper leansTo gayer scenes,And serious life void moments spares,The sylvan chaseMy sinews brace!Or song unbend my mind from cares!

"When temper leans

To gayer scenes,

And serious life void moments spares,

The sylvan chase

My sinews brace!

Or song unbend my mind from cares!

"Nor shun, my soul!The genial bowl,Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow!Ingredients these,Above, to pleaseThe laughing gods, the wise, below.

"Nor shun, my soul!

The genial bowl,

Where mirth, good nature, spirit, flow!

Ingredients these,

Above, to please

The laughing gods, the wise, below.

"Though rich the vine,More wit than wine,More sense than wit, good-will than art,May I provide!Fair truth, my pride!My joy, the converse of the heart!

"Though rich the vine,

More wit than wine,

More sense than wit, good-will than art,

May I provide!

Fair truth, my pride!

My joy, the converse of the heart!

"The gloomy brow,The broken vow,To distant climes, ye gods! remove!The nobly soul'dTheir commerce holdWith words of truth and looks of love!

"The gloomy brow,

The broken vow,

To distant climes, ye gods! remove!

The nobly soul'd

Their commerce hold

With words of truth and looks of love!

"O glorious aim!O wealth supreme!Divine benevolence of soul![pg 182]That greatly glows,And freely flows,And in one blessing grasps the whole;

"O glorious aim!

O wealth supreme!

Divine benevolence of soul!

That greatly glows,

And freely flows,

And in one blessing grasps the whole;

"Prophetic schemes,And golden dreams,May I, unsanguine, cast away!Have, what I have!And live, not leave,Enamour'd of the present day!

"Prophetic schemes,

And golden dreams,

May I, unsanguine, cast away!

Have, what I have!

And live, not leave,

Enamour'd of the present day!

"My hours my own!My faults unknown!My chief revenue in content!Then, leave one beamOf honest fame!And scorn the labour'd monument!

"My hours my own!

My faults unknown!

My chief revenue in content!

Then, leave one beam

Of honest fame!

And scorn the labour'd monument!

"Unhurt my urn!Till that great turnWhen mighty nature's self shall die!Time cease to glide,With human pride,Sunk in the ocean of eternity."

"Unhurt my urn!

Till that great turn

When mighty nature's self shall die!

Time cease to glide,

With human pride,

Sunk in the ocean of eternity."

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