Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

“O gracious God! how far have we
Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain'd above
For tongues of Angels and for hymns of love!”
Dryden's Ode on Mrs. Anne Killigrew.

In eastern climes, when time was young,
'Twas Nature tun'd the poet's tongue
To piety and love:
Fair woman's matchless charms he told;
And those, whom fable feign'd to hold
On grey Olympus' top the scepter'd rule above.

But oft he made the Muses' shrine
With flames from unblest incense shine:
And oft his numbers flow'd,
Responsive to the golden chord,
In praise of idol-gods abhorr'd,
With lawless passion foul, and wet with crimson blood.

Alas, that weeds impure should mar,
O Arethuse, thy fountain fair;
And, clear Ilissus, thine;
Thine too, O Meles, nobler flood!
Whose bard could oft, in holier mood,
Touch the refulgent verse with fire almost divine.

Not such the themes, that wont to swell
Thy hymns, triumphant Israël,
To Virgin timbrels sung:
Or when thy tribes from Shinar's plain

To gladness tun'd their harps again,
Which many a silent year by Babel's waters hung:

But raptures heav'nly pure, to Him,
Who dwells between the Cherubim,
Thron'd on the viewless sky;
Of old who brought the mountains forth,
Girt with a wat'ry zone the earth,
And cloth'd the heav'n with light, The Holy One and High.

For who from Cedron's gushing wave
Would turn, his thirsty lip to lave
In Sodom's pool obscene?
Who mid Arabian deserts rove,
If his the sweets of Eden's grove,
Ambrosial nectarin fruits, fresh flow'rs, and arbours green?

Yet, ah! to bless our favour'd sky,
Tho' beams the day-spring from on high
With clear and cloudless light,
Whose rays might deck the brightest strain;
Yet many a spot of earthly stain
Fair fancy's cheek deforms, and blurs her vesture white.

Tho' Dryden move with stateliest pace;
In Pope's mellifluous song though grace
And polish'd softness smile;
I envy not their tainted praise;
I'd scorn to wear the freshest bays,
Which bind poetic brows, if guilt the wreath defile.

Be mine the nobler aim, to feel
And plead for outrag'd right, with zeal,
O Cowper, pure as thine;

With Gray to wake the pensive lyre;
Or sing with Milton's angel fire,
Connubial love how sweet! how charming truth divine!

So, as she lists the moral strain,
No generous blush, my Friend, shall stain
The virgin's kindling cheek;
And so perchance the melting eye
Of heav'n-descended Piety
Be turn'd with steadfast gaze her native courts to seek;

While, like the morning dew, that pours
From April clouds in grateful show'rs
To glad its parent earth;
I chaunt my pure and guiltless lay,
And strive the mercies to display
Of Him, who forms the tongue, and gives the fancy birth.