 | The Poems of John Philips |  |
II. From the Works of 1720
AN ODE TO HENRY ST. JOHN, ESQ;
I
O thou from INDIA's fruitful Soil,That dost that soveraign Herb prepare;
In whose rich Fumes I lose the Toil
Of Life, and every anxious Care:
While from the fragrant lighted Bole,
I suck new Life into my Soul:
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II
Thou, only Thou! art kind to viewThe parching Flames that I sustain;
Which with cool Draughts Thy Casks subdue
And wash away the thirsty Pain,
With Wines, whose Strength and Taste we prize,
From Latian Suns and nearer Skies.
III
Oh! say, to bless thy pious Love,What Vows, what Offerings shall I bring?
Since I can spare, and Thou approve
No other Gift, O hear me sing!
In Numbers Phœbus does inspire,
That strings for Thee the charming Lyre.
IV
Aloft, above the liquid Sky,I stretch my Wing, and fain would go
Where Rome's sweet Swan did whilom fly;
And soaring, left the Clouds below;
The Muse invoking to indue
With Strength, his Pinions, as he flew.
V
Whether he sings great Beauty's Praise,Loves gentle Pain, or tender Woes;
Or chuse, the Subject of his Lays,
The blushing Grape, or blooming Rose;
Or near cool CYRRHA's rocky Springs
MÆCENAS listens while he sings.
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VI
Yet He, no nobler Draught could boast,His Muse, or Musick to inspire,
Tho' all FALERNUM's purple Coast,
Flow'd in each Glass, to lend Him Fire:
And on his Tables us'd to smile
The Vintage of rich CHIO's Isle.
VII
MÆCENAS deign'd to hear his Songs,His Muse extoll'd, his Voice approv'd;
To Thee a fairer Fame belongs,
At once more pleasing, more belov'd.
Oh! teach my Heart to bound its Flame,
As I record thy Love and Fame.
VIII
Teach me the Passion to restrain,As I my grateful Homage bring;
And last in PHŒBUS' humble Train
The first and brightest Genius sing.
The Muses Favourite pleas'd to live,
Paying them back the Fame they give.
IX
But oh! as greatly I aspireTo tell my Love, to speak thy Praise,
Boasting no more its sprightly Fire,
My Bosom heaves, my Voice decays;
With Pain I touch the mournful String
And pant and languish as I sing.
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X
Faint Nature now demands that BreathThat feebly strives thy Worth to sing,
And would be hush'd and lost in Death
Did not thy Care kind Succours bring;
Thy pitying Cask my Soul sustain,
And call new Life in every Vein.
XI
The Sober Glass I now behold,Thy Health, with fair FRANCISCA's joyn,
Wishing her Cheeks may long unfold
Such Beauties, and be ever Thine;
No Chance the tender Joy remove,
While She can please, and Thou canst love.
XII
Thus while by You the British armsTriumphs and distant Fame pursue;
The yielding Fair resigns her Charms,
And gives you leave to conquer too;
Her snowy Neck, Her Breast, Her Eyes,
And all the Nymph becomes your Prize.
XIII
What comely Grace, what Beauty smiles,Upon her Lips what Sweetness dwells?
Not Love himself so oft beguiles,
Nor VENUS self so much excells;
What different Fates our Passions share,
While you enjoy, and I despair?
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XIV
MARIA's Form as I survey,Her Smiles a thousand Wounds impart;
Each Feature steals my Soul away,
Each Glance deprives me of my Heart.
And chasing thence each other Fair,
Leaves her own Image only, there.
XV
Altho' my anxious Breast despair,And sighing, hopes no kind return;
Yet for the lov'd relentless Fair
By Night I wake, by Day I burn.
Nor can thy Gifts soft Sleep supply,
Or sooth my Pains, or close my Eye.
| The Poems of John Philips | |