Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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MARTIN, THE FRIEND. |
Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | ||
173
MARTIN, THE FRIEND.
Nos quoq; per totum pariter cantabimur orbem;
Junctaq; semper erunt nomina nostra tuis,
Junctaq; semper erunt nomina nostra tuis,
O Martin! I grow ravish'd, while I write,
And Friendship Works me to a Sacred height.
Martin the Friend! When will the transport end!
Martin, the best, the truest, only Friend!
So much I Love thee, more than Poets Fame,
That I could dwell for ever on the Name.
O Martin! Martin!—Let the grateful sound
Reach to that Heaven, which has our Friendship Crown'd.
And like our endless Friendship, meet no bound.
Friendship, the truest Blessing Heaven can give,
From Heaven descended, does in Martin live.
Heaven gave me you, in you was Friendship giv'n,
Heaven gave me you, and you would give me Heav'n.
174
Poetick fury can no sense afford
Fit for the Ecchoes of that sound restor'd.
If e'er we meet, then shall we best commend
The Sense, the Name, the Nature of a Friend.
Sure we meet now, with thine I mix my Soul,
And all, all Friendship does my sense controul,
Exalt the Man, and high as Passion rowl.
Beyond all thought transcendent Friendship Tow'rs,
Beyond the faculties of Mortal Pow'rs,
While with Extatick Pride my ravish'd Soul grows yours.
Fain would I speak; but how can Words express
The Debt I owe? To own would make it less.
You Love with fondness, not Austere, tho' Wise,
Blind to my Faults, yet still with sense advise.
Believe me, Friend, since you the Name will own,
And since my welfare so much yours is grown,
When ever Heaven shall the blest change permit,
The Muse, your Rival long, at last I'll quit.
I'll make no Poet's unsuccessful vow,
The Friend protests, and 'tis to Martin now.
But if by wit, the worst of Follies, curst,
I must write on, still wretched as at worst.
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I never thought that Verse was fated so.
Who only errs, his errour may excuse;
I own the Folly, and condemn the Muse.
What's past the World forgive—forgive me Friend,
And, if a Poet ever can—I'll mend.
No more shall Verse delude with hopes of Fame,
No more the Muse my Senses Empire claim,
No more shall numbers Charm—
Nor with Amasia's, nor with Martin's Name.
No more shall Love be as an Art display'd,
Only I'll cure those Wounds my Verse has made.
To every Name, to all, but Heaven and you,
The best-good Man, Martin, my Friend—Adieu.
Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | ||