 | Two Odes |  |
I. 1.
Daughter of Chaos and old Night,Cimmerian Muse, all hail!
That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil!
What Poet sings, and strikes the strings?
It was the mighty Theban spoke.
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With magick hand elicits fire.
Heard ye the din of Modern Rhimers bray?
It was cool M*****n: or warm G***y
Involv'd in tenfold smoke.
I. 2.
The shallow Fop in antick vest,Tir'd of the beaten road,
Proud to be singularly drest,
Changes, with every changing moon, the mode.
Say, shall not then the heav'n-born Muses too
Variety persue?
Shall not applauding Criticks hail the vogue?
Whether the Muse the stile of Cambria's sons,
Or the rude gabble of the Huns,
Or the broader dialect
Of Caledonia she affect,
Or take, Hibernia, thy still ranker brogue?
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I. 3.
On this terrestrial ballThe tyrant Fashion governs all.
She, fickle Goddess, whom in days of yore
The Ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antick fool, hight Andrew, bore.
Long she paid him with disdain,
And long his pangs in silence he conceal'd:
At length, in happy hour, his love-sick pain
On thy blest Calends, April, he reveal'd.
From their embraces sprung,
Ever changing, ever ranging,
Fashion, Goddess ever young.
| Two Odes | |