Poems on Several Occasions By Mary Masters |
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To Mrs. Masters, upon reading the 139th Psalm turned into Verse by her.
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 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
To Mrs. Masters, upon reading the 139th Psalm turned into Verse by her.
By T. SCOTT.
Too long, I own, harmonious Maid,
I have the grateful Verse delay'd:
With conscious Blushes I peruse
The friendly Labours of your Muse,
A Muse, who with the Critick's Rage
Did in a generous Strife engage;
Vindictive of my youthful Lays
Below their Censure, or your Praise.
Wou'd I, in heav'nly Verse like yours,
Had laid out my Poetick Hours!
I have the grateful Verse delay'd:
With conscious Blushes I peruse
The friendly Labours of your Muse,
A Muse, who with the Critick's Rage
Did in a generous Strife engage;
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Below their Censure, or your Praise.
Wou'd I, in heav'nly Verse like yours,
Had laid out my Poetick Hours!
Instructive Pleasures charm my Ear,
When with devout Surprize I hear
The soft melodious Hebrew's Voice
In your sweet, ecchoing Notes rejoice;
With a sublime and solemn Sound
Diffuse his Maker's Praise around,
Measure the broad, all-seeing Eye,
And travel thro' Immensity.
When with devout Surprize I hear
The soft melodious Hebrew's Voice
In your sweet, ecchoing Notes rejoice;
With a sublime and solemn Sound
Diffuse his Maker's Praise around,
Measure the broad, all-seeing Eye,
And travel thro' Immensity.
O boundless Plenitude divine!
Whom not the highest Heav'ns confine;
O infinitely-piercing View,
That sees the secret Spirit through!
O more than mortal Poet! tell,
How cou'd thy opening Fancy swell
To compass so immense a Theme:
Thy Fancy felt the Pow'r supreme,
The Pow'r supreme inform'd the Birth,
And call'd the vast Ideas forth.
Thrice happy Maid! who cou'd transfuse
The Genius of so great a Muse,
Who cou'd in no unfaithful Lay
Her Majesty of Thought display.
Whom not the highest Heav'ns confine;
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That sees the secret Spirit through!
O more than mortal Poet! tell,
How cou'd thy opening Fancy swell
To compass so immense a Theme:
Thy Fancy felt the Pow'r supreme,
The Pow'r supreme inform'd the Birth,
And call'd the vast Ideas forth.
Thrice happy Maid! who cou'd transfuse
The Genius of so great a Muse,
Who cou'd in no unfaithful Lay
Her Majesty of Thought display.
How many, in redundant Strains,
With fruitless paraphrasing Pains,
The sacred Poet have diffus'd,
Unmann'd his Verse, his Sense abus'd!
While in luxuriant Lines they play,
And in the Maze of Fancy stray,
They waste the Vigor of his Song,
They sink the Grandeur of his Tongue;
(Frugal his Words, profuse his Thought)
Till down to Earth from Heaven brought
Languid and low, the Prophet lies,
And in the Paraphraser dies.
With fruitless paraphrasing Pains,
The sacred Poet have diffus'd,
Unmann'd his Verse, his Sense abus'd!
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And in the Maze of Fancy stray,
They waste the Vigor of his Song,
They sink the Grandeur of his Tongue;
(Frugal his Words, profuse his Thought)
Till down to Earth from Heaven brought
Languid and low, the Prophet lies,
And in the Paraphraser dies.
So when the Sun his Noon adorns,
In a less Orb his Glory burns;
And the collected beams display
A statelier Blaze, a stronger Day.
But rolling down the Western Sky,
Thro' Mists expanding to the Eye,
Faintly he sheds the scattering Light,
And fading falls away in Night.
In a less Orb his Glory burns;
And the collected beams display
A statelier Blaze, a stronger Day.
But rolling down the Western Sky,
Thro' Mists expanding to the Eye,
Faintly he sheds the scattering Light,
And fading falls away in Night.
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Judicious Maid! with steddier View
The great Orig'nal you pursue,
And, season'd with religious Fear,
Print off each heav'nly Thought with Care:
Pure from false mixtures, every Line
Does with a Virgin-Lustre shine.
Your Muse a decent Vesture wears,
Modest her Mein, and chaste her Airs:
With simple Elegance she charms;
While easy Majesty informs
The Verse, and to remembrance brings,
You but resound, what David sings.
The great Orig'nal you pursue,
And, season'd with religious Fear,
Print off each heav'nly Thought with Care:
Pure from false mixtures, every Line
Does with a Virgin-Lustre shine.
Your Muse a decent Vesture wears,
Modest her Mein, and chaste her Airs:
With simple Elegance she charms;
While easy Majesty informs
The Verse, and to remembrance brings,
You but resound, what David sings.
O! then the noble Task renew,
A Task which seems reserv'd for you.
In ev'ry British Soul, inspire
A Passion for the Hebrew Lyre;
And let your fair Translations show
What Beauties in the Scriptures grow:
What Fires in heav'nly Bosoms glow'd,
When lab'ring with no fansy'd God:
How high the tow'ring Mind could soar,
Which the celestial Dove upbore.
Then Wits in silence shall admire
Isaiah's more than Homer's Fire;
Pindar to David yield the Prize,
And Virgil's Majesty in Moses rise.
A Task which seems reserv'd for you.
In ev'ry British Soul, inspire
A Passion for the Hebrew Lyre;
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What Beauties in the Scriptures grow:
What Fires in heav'nly Bosoms glow'd,
When lab'ring with no fansy'd God:
How high the tow'ring Mind could soar,
Which the celestial Dove upbore.
Then Wits in silence shall admire
Isaiah's more than Homer's Fire;
Pindar to David yield the Prize,
And Virgil's Majesty in Moses rise.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |