Part 19 (1/2)

ODE I.

Where reverend bards of old have sate And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate, Thou takest the hereditary shade Which Nature's homely art had made, And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she Advances to the galaxy; There with the sparkling Cowley she above Does hand in hand in graceful measures move.

We grovelling mortals gaze below, And long in vain to know Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight: In vain, alas! we grope,[63]

In vain we use our earthly telescope, We're blinded by an intermedial night.

Thine eagle-Muse can only face The fiery coursers in their race, While with unequal paces we do try To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.

II.

The loud harmonious Mantuan Once charm'd the world; and here's the Uscan swan In his declining years does chime, And challenges the last remains of Time.

Ages run on, and soon give o'er, They have their graves as well as we; Time swallows all that's past and more, Yet time is swallow'd in eternity: This is the only profits poets see.

There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state And lead in chains devouring Fate; Claudian's bright Ph[oe]nix she shall bring Thee an immortal offering; Nor shall my humble tributary Muse Her homage and attendance too refuse; She thrusts herself among the crowd, And joining in th' applause she strives to clap aloud

III.

Tell me no more that Nature is severe, Thou great philosopher!

Lo! she has laid her vast exchequer here.

Tell me no more that she has sent So much already, she is spent; Here is a vast America behind Which none but the great Silurist could find.

Nature her last edition was the best, As big, as rich as all the rest: So will we here admit Another world of wit.

No rude or savage fancy here shall stay The travelling reader in his way, But every coast is clear: go where he will, Virtue's the road Thalia leads him still.

Long may she live, and wreath thy sacred head For this her happy resurrection from the dead.

N. W., Jes. Coll., Oxon.

FOOTNOTES:

[63] The original has _flight In raine; alas! we grope_.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR. HENRY VAUGHAN THE SILURIST.

See what thou wert! by what Platonic round Art thou in thy first youth and glories found?

Or from thy Muse does this retrieve accrue?

Does she which once inspir'd thee, now renew, Bringing thee back those golden years which Time Smooth'd to thy lays, and polish'd with thy rhyme?

Nor is't to thee alone she does convey Such happy change, but bountiful as day, On whatsoever reader she does s.h.i.+ne, She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.

And first thy manual op'ning gives to see Eclipse and suff'rings burnish majesty, Where thou so artfully the draught hast made That we best read the l.u.s.tre in the shade, And find our sov'reign greater in that shroud: So lightning dazzles from its night and cloud, So the First Light Himself has for His throne Blackness, and darkness his pavilion.

Who can refuse thee company, or stay, By thy next charming summons forc'd away, If that be force which we can so resent, That only in its joys 'tis violent: Upward thy Eagle bears us ere aware, Till above storms and all tempestuous air We radiant worlds with their bright people meet, Leaving this little all beneath our feet.

But now the pleasure is too great to tell, Nor have we other bus'ness than to dwell, As on the hallow'd Mount th' Apostles meant To build and fix their glorious banishment.

Yet we must know and find thy skilful vein Shall gently bear us to our homes again; By which descent thy former flight's impli'd To be thy ecstacy and not thy pride.

And here how well does the wise Muse demean Herself, and fit her song to ev'ry scene!

Riot of courts, the b.l.o.o.d.y wreaths of war, Cheats of the mart, and clamours of the bar, Nay, life itself thou dost so well express, Its hollow joys, and real emptiness, That Dorian minstrel never did excite, Or raise for dying so much appet.i.te.

Nor does thy other softer magic move Us less thy fam'd Etesia to love; Where such a character thou giv'st, that shame Nor envy dare approach the vestal dame: So at bright prime ideas none repine, They safely in th' eternal poet s.h.i.+ne.