Ayres, and dialogues :: :: University of Virginia Library

Brave Lavves! Thou art Return'd again: the Sun
And You do thus your Emulous Courses Run.
And whiles you both in different Orbes appear,
He onely Makes, but Thou dost Crown the Year.
That if the Old Philosophy were true,
What his Spent Fires could not, thy Lyre would doe;
Make Old Time Vigorous still, confessing more
Thy Fam'd Layes now, then all his Beams before.
Nature her self should thus thy Learn'd Aid crave,
From whose Stockt Brain all that we have, we have.
Whose Yearly Spendings Shew, not wast thy Store,
Who after Numerous Births can yet give more.
Still whole, Unspent that when the Year doth cease
(As Ægypt Nile's) We wait thy Next Encrease.
Then High, and Rich as He Thou Flow'st: We see
What all else cannot, and what Thou can'st be.
And till We pass the Spheres, must still attend,
To know what Height Musick hath yet t'ascend.

For Thou Grasp'st all; We the rude Matter give,
Thou into Verse breath'st Soul, and bid'st it Live.
Endu'st it with that Plastick Pow'r to Spring
What Thou would'st have it, This, That, any Thing.
Dost in thy Mould our Wit new Shape, and Cast,
Giv'st it New Salt, the Haut Goust, and Rich Tast.
It Lives with us, doth Flourish in thy Ayre,
Born from our Brains, but Educated there.
Things that from us flat and insipid flow,
Voic'd once by Thee, straight into Raptures grow.
When from her Mine Invention Fancy brings,
Thy composition a New Fancy Springs.
Thus whiles all comes Exact, Watch'd, Humour'd, Hit,
Thy Ayre's Ingenous, and makes Musick Wit.

Nor dost Thou, Narrow, only dwell among
The Easie Rhimes of thine own Time, and Tongue:
Thy Reaching, Vent'ring Soul doth Wit pursue

Setting of Anacreon's Odes.

Thorough all Languages, and all times too;
That which some Twenty Ages since first grew,
Thou Retriv'st now, and we admire as New.
Compar'st and tri'st how th'Ancient Pipes will sound,
Mak'st Old with stronger by the New Rebound:
Who are, and who are not, Obliged bee,
Poet, and Poetry it self to thee.
What She suggests comes a mishapen Birth,
Till Thou step'st in, and thence strik'st Musick forth.

Admired Lavves! thy Happy Ayres have knit
Eternall Leagues 'twixt Harmony and wit:

Which none but those thy Richer Robes will know,
When she keeps State, or would in Triumph go.
We drink in Thousand Pleasures from One Song,
Which Charms us all, the Learned and the Throng.
We are Transported, Lost! thy Notes betray,
Drop on the Sense, and melt us quite away.
And when we're Extasy'd, Expiring, then
Thy Next Note Wooes, and calls us back agen.
At once Thou Steal'st, and can'st invade us too,
Straight Rouze those pow'rs which were all Lodg'd but now.
Thou like some Mighty Monarch dost controul,
Dispence, Rule, Work, and Reign o're all the Soul.
Thou shoot'st New Beings: For we are no more,
When we hear Thee, that which we were before.
But as that Begger who in's Raving Fits,
Got Crowns and Scepters when he lost his Wits;
Cur'd, and himself again, Griev'd straight to pass
Into that poor, shrunk Nothing that he was:
So when thy Strains Feast our low Fancies high,
We Trample Earth, and Mounting, Knock the Sky.
But when They cease, All Mourn that we have lost
Those Tow'ring Thoughts our then Rapt Souls engross'd.
Thou, like a Generall Influence, Sway'st in All,
Dost Touch the Mind, and her glad Motions call.
Whiles We our Constant Acclamations bring
To the still New Choice Graces that You Sing.

Thus dost Thou Govern all (Harmonious Soul!)
And through the Great whole Orbe of Musick Rowl.
Break'st from thy Self, Scatt'ring Day every where,
Not leaving one Dark Part in all the Sphere.
All Native, Genuine, and Unborrow'd streams,
The Sun and Lavves know not to Owe their Beams.
Who on the Wings Thou Imp'st Verse with, hast Spread
Thy Fame far as the Roman Eagle fled.
Those Judging Few who can Compare, admire,
And find Thine Match the best Italian Lyre;
Thou still Stand'st High; thy Rules so True, Severe!
All by thy Card, Thou by thine Own dost steere.
Like the First Mover, Uncontrol'd dost Move,
(He which makes peace, Turnes, and Tunes all Above.)
Even, and Just as he: whiles all doth shew
What Harmony, that is, what Lavves can do.

And such! so Full! so Mighty is thy Vein,
Thou hast scarce Thought when all flowes from thy Brain.
As Things first met in the Creation, All,
Doth of it self straight into Concord fall;
Which issuing free as Springing Light from th'Morn,
Shews Thee Musician, like the Poet Born.
You Two do Wing it still in Noble Flights,
Strive, Stretch, Mount, Soar, Match, and vie Heights with Heights.
And we the while Admiring, doubtfull stand,
Which shall at last the Bravest Place command.

With Words and Ayres our Ears are doubly fed,
What e're thou set'st is at once Sung and sed.
Thou dost still Apt, Complying Notes dispense,
True to the Words, but truer to the sense.
The Tunes Rehearse: no Crowd of Graces throng,
And Justle all the Words out of the Song.
But are so scatter'd here, and there, so sowne,
It hath them all, and yet is vex'd with None.
Thy Jewels with such Art are plac'd and worne,
That they ne'r Cloud the part they should adorne.
Thus doth thy Equall Skill not more delight,
To do thy Self, then do the Poet Right.
Thou Maim'st not him to come forth Conquerour, Thine,
Steales none o'th Bullion when it adds the Coin.
No tedious, long, deviding tricks betray
His sense; and vapour all his Words away.
Yet when a Word comes fit t'Espouze a Grace.
Thou marri'st both, and know'st the Rites, and place.
Then Fancy humour'd shews the guilded Beam,
That Glitt'ring Plays, and Quavers on the stream.
Both Close, and Kind as Life and Spirit sit,
Thy Ayres still Quicken, never stifle Wit.
And as One Dram of Gold can ne'r be lost,
Though in a Thousand Fires Try'd, Vex'd, and Forc'd,
Dissolv'd, mix'd with all Elements, we see,
Expans'd to Infinite, what was will Bee.
So with the same Entireness Numbers do,
From all thy Artfull Compositions flow.
Which though through all thy Flats and Sharps express'd
In thy Rich Notes, and various humours dress'd.
Are still the same: if any Change appear,
Stamp'd now by Thee, they'r better than they were.
Where Words, Sense, Tunes Embrace, so Kiss, Twist Hit,
Thy whole Age hath not lost One Grain of Wit.

Go on Great Master of thy Art! Strike dumb,
And with thy Tones Calm the Tempestuous Drum.
Tune, Recollect, Please, and reform us; Thine,
Come at once Musick too, and Discipline.
Let thy soft Notes invite us, slide, and Steal,
Rock this Frow'rd Age, and with their Balsam Heal.
Shew all the Miracles thy voice can do,
Our Orpheus and our Æsculapius too.
And when these Revolutions make thy Shine
Compleat, and Thou hast woave thy great Designe:
Hush'd all our Noise, spread Calms made all serene,
And with thy Ayres at last shut up the Scene:
All Done, Thou shalt (though late, we hope) Remove,
And change thy Musick here for that Above.
Where thou shalt here how Saints their Anthems sing,
And shalt thy Self another Anthem bring.
Thou who did'st Tune the World, whiles Thou wert here,
Shall take an Angels place, and Tune a Sphere.

Horatio Moore.