 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
4
ODE.
I
Nor Heaps of Gold, nor Monuments as highAs the Ambition of the Great,
Can buy one Moment tow'rds Eternity,
Or change the fix'd Decrees of Fate;
'Tis Verse alone can give a Name,
And crown our Actions with eternal Fame:
Thus mighty Cæsar's Triumphs live,
Not in his Monuments, but those his Poets give.
II
In Fields of Death, the bleeding Warriors toil,And brave the loudest Storms of Fate;
They die to make eternal Fame their Spoil,
And pawn their Life for being Great:
5
Virtue by Verse, by Virtue Poets live;
For her they tune their Numbers high;
For Virtue is the Burning-Glass of Poetry.
III
But, ah! where does this heavenly Goddess dwell?Where does her blessed Seat remain?
We search the Palace, and the Hermit's Cell,
We search, but search, alas, in vain!
Gold is the Load-stone of the Great,
And vulgar Souls must catch the glitt'ring Bait;
The Scale of Justice sinks with Gold,
And impious Bribes to win the Cause, must damn the Soul.
IV
In Tufton, Muse behold the Deity,With him begin to grace your Song;
All that is great, and good in him, you see,
To him your Voice, and Lyre, belong;
He rais'd you from a low Degree,
Then let your Numbers raise him to the Sky;
Offer what Gifts the Muse can give,
He gave you Fame, then make his Fame to live.
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V
But, ah, my Muse, your Colours are too faint,Your Strength too weak, your Theme too great,
Alas! in vain, your Pencil strives to paint,
What Mortal cannot imitate:
But if he Smile, then stretch your Wing,
And tune his Praises on a bolder String;
Then ev'ry Tongue shall speak his Fame,
And Criticks spare my Verse, protected with his Name.
VI
Thus Gold, at first, is but a sluggish Mass,Whilst it lies cover'd in the Earth;
But when 'tis coin'd, the awful Monarch's Face
Makes it a God, and gives it Birth;
The World the sudden God adore,
And humbly own his universal Power;
Sceptres and Kings are in his Hand,
And Nature reverences his supreme Command.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |