Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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The Vision of the MUSE. |
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
The Vision of the MUSE.
Tell me, false Muse! What Joys can we propose
When Wit, and Fortune, are such Mortal Foes?
All that the most inspir'd can hope to find,
Is to Charm Nymphs, to sordid int'rest Blind.
Whilst others rise, by every vulgar skill;
But only Poets, must be Poets still.
Forgive me, Muse, for I must needs complain;
Sure there's some Pleasure in indulging Pain.
Loe! Where she comes; behold! Unusual bright,
And Flashes on me, with a Flood of Light.
From open'd Heav'n she Posts, and in the sky,
A Train of glitt'ring Thoughts behind her fly.
So when a Comet ceases to appear,
A Thousand little Glories gild the Air.
Ah! I repent; my weak resolves are gone,
The Muse has now put Heav'nly Beauties on.
See, on a Rain-Bow, seated all Divine,
The Angel-Muse in Native Lustre shine.
I can't the Genius of my Soul refuse,
Welcome, O ever welcome, Heaven-Sprung Muse!
Hark, I am Charm'd, she strikes her lyre, and Sings,
See how her Fingers beat the Dancing Strings,
She Tunes, to mighty Heroes, mighty things.
But, loe! She calls me—loe! I mount thro' Air,
Fly to her stand, and am already there.
Most gracious Muse—
When Wit, and Fortune, are such Mortal Foes?
All that the most inspir'd can hope to find,
Is to Charm Nymphs, to sordid int'rest Blind.
Whilst others rise, by every vulgar skill;
But only Poets, must be Poets still.
Forgive me, Muse, for I must needs complain;
Sure there's some Pleasure in indulging Pain.
Loe! Where she comes; behold! Unusual bright,
And Flashes on me, with a Flood of Light.
From open'd Heav'n she Posts, and in the sky,
A Train of glitt'ring Thoughts behind her fly.
137
A Thousand little Glories gild the Air.
Ah! I repent; my weak resolves are gone,
The Muse has now put Heav'nly Beauties on.
See, on a Rain-Bow, seated all Divine,
The Angel-Muse in Native Lustre shine.
I can't the Genius of my Soul refuse,
Welcome, O ever welcome, Heaven-Sprung Muse!
Hark, I am Charm'd, she strikes her lyre, and Sings,
See how her Fingers beat the Dancing Strings,
She Tunes, to mighty Heroes, mighty things.
But, loe! She calls me—loe! I mount thro' Air,
Fly to her stand, and am already there.
Most gracious Muse—
—Rise my Repentant Son,
'Tis done, thy Fate is fixt, 'tis done, 'tis done.
I Pardon all thy mean distrusts, and fears,
Forget the past, no room for new appears.
Thy gen'rous Patron shall at length be free,
From Pompous business, and provide for thee.
Tho' 'tis the Radiant God's to drive the day,
He gilds those Clouds, which wait him in the way.
What can you doubt! He now affords a Theme,
Should wing each Muse, and fire the Sons of Fame.
But here to praise, excels the Poet's skill,
'Tis beyond thought he should grow greater still.
Not unsuccessful was thy latest flight,
But now, my Son, soar to a nobler height.
Sincere, thy grief did his lost Charmer mourn,
Whose Hearse the Laureat did more rich adorn,
Whilst all his willing Wreaths to Cypress turn.
For a lost Wife with Plaints you fill'd the plain,
But now the Hero is espous'd again.
He weds Religion with Immortal Joy,
A Virgin still, still Chast, yet never Coy.
Ambrosial, Balmy, sweets bedew her Wings,
And in great Dowry, the whole Heavens she brings.
Yet, with such Zeal, he makes his Passion known,
He seems to Court her, for her self alone.
O what can equal such exalted State!
So great a Hero!—Yet as good as great!
Well has his Sword made haughty Armies Bow,
Well has he Conquer'd, for he Triumphs now.
Still next his leading Monarch firm he stood,
In things not only great, but greatly good.
Now, with Ambitious Zeal, himself would head,
And ev'n by Nassau, cannot here be led.
Heav'n still the cause, they fought for, did maintain,
And William, ever glorious in his Reign,
With his best chief, espouses Heaven again.
Here praise, my Son, for here all praise is due,
Their glory flies, where never Mortal's flew.
Extol him far—far, as my Wings can soar,
Give almost all to him, to Nassau only, more.
Thus, as thy Fate has fixt, thy Fortune lies,
Assume thou sacred Fires, but dare, and rise.
When Heaven and Nassau raises, who can fall!
And both, with gen'rous Zeal, would Cherish all.
To Camps, to glorious Camps prepare to flee,
Fir'd by thy Patron's Actions may'st thou be,
And grow—
As Godlike great, if possible, as he.
'Tis done, thy Fate is fixt, 'tis done, 'tis done.
I Pardon all thy mean distrusts, and fears,
Forget the past, no room for new appears.
Thy gen'rous Patron shall at length be free,
From Pompous business, and provide for thee.
Tho' 'tis the Radiant God's to drive the day,
He gilds those Clouds, which wait him in the way.
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Should wing each Muse, and fire the Sons of Fame.
But here to praise, excels the Poet's skill,
'Tis beyond thought he should grow greater still.
Not unsuccessful was thy latest flight,
But now, my Son, soar to a nobler height.
Sincere, thy grief did his lost Charmer mourn,
Whose Hearse the Laureat did more rich adorn,
Whilst all his willing Wreaths to Cypress turn.
For a lost Wife with Plaints you fill'd the plain,
But now the Hero is espous'd again.
He weds Religion with Immortal Joy,
A Virgin still, still Chast, yet never Coy.
Ambrosial, Balmy, sweets bedew her Wings,
And in great Dowry, the whole Heavens she brings.
Yet, with such Zeal, he makes his Passion known,
He seems to Court her, for her self alone.
O what can equal such exalted State!
So great a Hero!—Yet as good as great!
Well has his Sword made haughty Armies Bow,
Well has he Conquer'd, for he Triumphs now.
Still next his leading Monarch firm he stood,
In things not only great, but greatly good.
139
And ev'n by Nassau, cannot here be led.
Heav'n still the cause, they fought for, did maintain,
And William, ever glorious in his Reign,
With his best chief, espouses Heaven again.
Here praise, my Son, for here all praise is due,
Their glory flies, where never Mortal's flew.
Extol him far—far, as my Wings can soar,
Give almost all to him, to Nassau only, more.
Thus, as thy Fate has fixt, thy Fortune lies,
Assume thou sacred Fires, but dare, and rise.
When Heaven and Nassau raises, who can fall!
And both, with gen'rous Zeal, would Cherish all.
To Camps, to glorious Camps prepare to flee,
Fir'd by thy Patron's Actions may'st thou be,
And grow—
As Godlike great, if possible, as he.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |