Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
 | I. |
| I. |
TO THE GOD of LOVE.
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 | II. |
| III. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
3
TO THE GOD of LOVE.
A PINDARICK.
Sine Numine nihil.
1
Some lose themselves to gain a lasting Name,And shun those Rocks which bar the Coasts of Fame:
Art does the skilful Pilot sit,
To guide in the full Sea of Wit,
The Poet flies with fancy's Sails,
Fame's wanton Breath affords him Gales,
A mighty Voyage now he takes
The Muses Indies must be sought,
The choicest Oare must thence be brought,
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Behold, what wondrous way he makes!
His course will soon be run,
Tho' adverse Winds controul,
And rudely toss a while his Soul,
He Sails about the World of thought,
And Journies like the God of Wit, the Sun.
Me Love shall guide, tho' Love be blind,
To thee alone thy Poet flies,
Thy Mother sprung from Seas we find
Thou, little, Infant God, behind,
No Winds but gentle Sights shall rise,
I'll steer my course by my Amasia's Eyes,
Amasia lies the Golden Coast,
Which I shall reach at last, or in the Search be lost.
2
Fam'd by their Muses flights let others prove,While I am Born upon the Wings of Love.
Some climb the Poets Hill with pain,
Yet to no height arrive,
Like Sysiphus his stone, in vain
Roll'd up, to be thrown down again,
When tir'd, at length, they cease to strive,
And on the barren plain dejected lie and live,
5
Beneath the Hill to seek out pleasing Groves,
The Charming Muses haunt the shades,
And there in Lawrel Bow'rs I would reveal my Loves.
Congreve, and Wicherly are great,
Upon Parnassus tops they sit,
Not rais'd by Fortune, but by Fate,
Their Praise is to their Merits late,
They lord it o'er the World of Wit,
The Mighty Dryden, o'er their Heads,
Like a vast cloud appears,
Gilt with late Sun-beams, wide he spreads,
And grateful dew upon them sheds,
Fruitful, yet shining too in Evening Years.
His fancy still swift does in Light'nings fly,
And loudly rowling Words run Thundring from his Sky.
3
Behold his Lawrels scatter'd from him far,Those Wreaths not proof against the Bolts of War.
The Godlike, great Nassaw is Crown'd;
A while we Martial noises hear,
Shrill Clangors Eccho thro' the Air,
The Musick of soft Numbers drown'd.
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Made wet with Blood, still blooming grow,
The Poet now that hopes to be renown'd,
Should his Just Praise, loud as his Trumpets, Sound.
Alcides, when an Infant, strove
With Serpents which against him rose,
His Cradle prov'd his claim to Jove,
He smil'd to see them gayly move,
And in their own bright Folds he chain'd the hissing Foes,
His Praise by mighty labours came,
In Paths of Glory still he trod,
His weighty Club beat out the Road,
His own great Pillars rais'd his Name,
High, soaring Praise he drew
From the Stymphalides he slew,
Their gawdy Plumes Feather'd the Wings of Fame.
His great Exploits such vast Applauses bore,
The Lyon which he kill'd ne'er could so loudly roar.
4
Godlike Nassaw the bloody Field has won,Herculean labours have by him been done,
No Club does this great Hero weild,
Yet drives vast flying Legions far,
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Himself's the dreadful Thunderbolt of War.
The giddy Goddess, Fortune Kneels,
Fond of her Conqu'rour's Love,
Joys in the Ravishment she feels,
Secure upon her Chariot Wheels,
Fixt with his weight of Glory, they want Power to move.
The bliss of Heav'n no living Man can know,
But Love to me, gives all the Joys below.
In the loud Field nor Arts, nor Arms I use,
I only Am'rous Battles fight,
Thee, little Boy, my chief I choose,
I live, and die in vast delight,
The Gods gave me a Mistress, and a Muse.
In Beauties Camp alone I lead,
How sure of Triumph must I grow
When taught to Conquer by the Maid
Who is alone my Foe?
Love is my War, Love is the Train that lies
To be blown fondly up by my Amasia's Eyes.
5
Proud as the Heav'ns, she sees us clouds below,We Weep, and drive, when e'er her Tempests blow,
8
She makes our Days appear,
Or Gloomy, or Serene and clear,
Each Glance she gives, like Light'ning cuts her wa
And, with one Angry word, she does like Thunder, slay,
Thou, God of Love, dost Merit Fame,
Greatness, and Honours are but Toys,
Compar'd with thy more real Joys,
A while the Bubbles gay appear,
Gaz'd at, they break, and scatter in the Air,
They yeild but Smoak, while you give warmer Flame.
The Thund'rer may unenvy'd sway,
And rule his Powers above,
As they his Laws, so he does thine obey.
How truly great would be the name of Jove,
If both the God of Thunder, and of Love!
Whene'er you Please to Smile or Frown,
His Bolts fall to the pavement down,
Your Flames more fiercely than his light'nings fly,
You make him quit his Heav'n, & lay his Godhead by.
He has his Bolts, Sol has his Silver Bow,
Nuptune is for his Trident fear'd, and for your Quiver, you.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |