A paraphrase upon the psalms of David By Sam. Woodford |
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To the Author, on his excellent Version of the Psalms.
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 | A paraphrase upon the psalms of David |  |
To the Author, on his excellent Version of the Psalms.
A Pindariqu' Ode.
1.
See (Worthy Friend) what I would do,(Whom neither Muse, nor Art inspire,
That have no friend in all the sacred Quire)
To shew my kindness for your Book, and you,
Forc't to disparage what I would admire!
Bold man, that dares attempt Pindariqu' now,
Since the great Pindar's greatest son
From the ungrateful Age is gon;
Cowley ha's bid th' ungrateful Age Adieu!
Apollo's rare Columbus He
Found out new worlds of Poetrie;
He like an Eagle tower'd aloft
To seize his noble prey;
Yet as a Dove's, his soul was soft,
Quiet as night, but bright as day.
To Heaven in fiery Chariot He
Ascended by Seraphick Poesie,
But which of us poor Mortals since can find,
Any inspiring Mantle that he left behind.
2.
His pow'rful numbers might ha' done you right;He could ha'spar'd you immortality;
Under that Chieftains banners you might fight,
Assur'd of Laurels, and of Victory.
Over devouring time, & sword, and fire,
And Jove's important ire.
My humble verse would better sing
David the shepheard, than the King:
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one,
(Tho' of the meaner sort)
Of them that may approach a Prince's Throne,
If 'twere but to be seen at Court.
Such (Sir,) is my ambition for a name,
Which I shall rather take of You, than give;
For in Your Book I cannot miss of fame,
But by contact shall live.
Thus on your Chariot's wheel shall I
Ride safe, and look as big as Æsop's Flie,
Who from th' Olympian race new come,
And now triumphantly got home,
To his neighbours of the Swarm thus proudly said,
“Don't you remember what a Dust I made?
3.
Where e're the Son of Jesse's Harp shall sound,Or Israels sweetest songs be sung
Like Sampson's Lion sweet and strong)
You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd;
To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes
His last deliverance from all his foes;
Blood thirsty Saul (less barbarous than they)
His person only sought to kill,
These did his deathless Poems slay
And sought immortal blood to spill,
A new Captivitie.
Deposed by these Rebels, You alone
Restore the glorious David to his Throne.
Long in disguise the Royal Prophet lay
Long from his own thoughts banished:
Ne're since his death till this illustrious day
Was Scepter in his hand, or Crown set on his head.
He seem'd as if at Gath be still had been,
As once before proud Achish he appear'd,
His face besmear'd,
And spittle on his beard,
A laughing stock to the insulting Philistin,
Drest in their Rimes he lookt as he were Mad,
In Tissue You, and Tyrian Purple have him clad.
Thomas Flatman M. A.
| A paraphrase upon the psalms of David | |