Miscellany Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Long I in Darkness, by false Meteors led,
Have blindly follow'd Truth, that from me fled:
Long have pursu'd the harsh and rugged Road,
Where Shakespear and Great Ben before me trod:
Yet now, Dear Friend, in vain I find,
I did th' Infatuating Fire pursue;
It onely did amuse my Mind,
And Me thrô Mists and Labyrinths drew:
Dully thrô thick and thin I wander'd on,
O're Denham's, Suckling's, Waller's Poems ran;
And vainly thought my self well Blest,
When I a while in Cleaveland's Shade could rest;
And at his Fountain quench my Thirst:
Or stretch'd my self along that Current's side,
Which with a Natural Force
Directs its Course,
And all o're Cowley's Odes Divine doth glide.
Cowley, who first some faint Discovery made
Of Pindar's unknown Shore:
Who first did with Anacreon trade,
And came home laden with Wit's sparkling Ore.
But You a more adventurous Course have ta'ne,
Which You alone were able to maintain
He dabled in the Straits of Wit, You lanch'd into the Main.

II.

Tell me, what Muse Your Fancy doth in inspire
That I may now invoke the same?

Or lend to Me Your Tunefull Lyre,
That I due Honours may proclaim;
And while Your Praises I make known,
May Propagate my Own;
And grow Immortal in the Mouth of Fame.
Lend me, O lend Your Quill,
Or Pardon, if against Your Will
I boldly do intrude
Among the numerous Multitude,
That to the Press with You do crowd.
In Pompous Dress You walk before in State,
And take Your Place in high Apollo's Court;
While We, th' Inspired of the lower Sort,
Pay our Attendance at the Gate.

III.

On Your Officious Dolphin's Back
Thrô the vast Floods of Time I'le safely break:
Safely shall o're Oblivion ride
And stem th' Impetuous Current of her Tyde.
The fam'd Arion so had once been lost
And perish'd in the watry Brine,
Had not some Dolphin, kind like thine,
Convey'd him to the Coast.
Oh! that my Numbers were like His; that I,
Supported on Your Friendly Fin,
An unfrequented Voyage so might try,
Thrô Pearly, Chrystal, Paths might creep,
And sound the hidden Secrets of the Deep.
To Neptune's Palace might resort,
View all his Riches, all his Store,
Of Precious Gems and Golden Ore,
And wanton with his Beauteous Nymphs at Court.

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IV.

What mighty Labour, mighty Pains
Some Poets take to wrack their Brains?
Small is their Wit, and much more small their Gains.
One treads the Lofty Stage
To please the Humours of a vicious Age:
In Satyr there Another doth delight
That Malice, more than Praise, doth move.
Another softer Lays doth write,
And sweats and travels in the Roads of Love.
But Your more Usefull Muse
Wisely another Way doth chose;
In mighty Numbers sings
Of mighty Secrets, mighty Things:
Things, that are worthy of Your Generous Mind,
And advantagious unto all Mankind.

V.

You hidden Knowledge from the Deep do take,
As Albemarle redeem'd the Golden Wreck.
With so much Fancy all Your Truths are joyn'd,
So Gentle and so Sweet they goe,
So smoothly Ebb, so smoothly Flow,
At once they charm the Hearing, and instruct the Mind.
In ev'ry Line Your Genius is exprest,
In ev'ry Word is found a lively Taste
Both of the Poet and the Priest.
You in Your swift Poetick Flight
Sometimes do soar to a stupendious Height:
Sometimes do not disdain
To Dive into the Main.
Your Odes may properly be stil'd Divine;
That both Cælestial are and Submarine.

xiii

VI.

Judgement, and Love, what would ye doe?
Whither my willing Fancy drive?
In vain You whip, in vain You strive,
In vain our Poet's Praise pursue:
So Bigg it looks, it's plac'd so High,
No human Art Access can find;
We scarce can reach it with our Mind:
No Quill can to its Distance fly,
And Language laggs behind.
No wonder then, if sunk beneath her Load
My Muse declines the Road.
'Tis You alone to praise Your self are fit,
But innate Modesty is so
Predominant in You,
It bridles up Your Tongue and curbs Your Wit.

VII.

And yet, if I like Dædalus could fly
And soar with artfull Wings above the Sky:
Like him, could quit that deep and horrid Shade,
Shake off those Chains
That clog my Brains,
Which Tyrant Dulness hath upon me laid:
I'de cut the yeilding Regions of the Air,
And o're Your Islands, o're Your Ocean steer,
And view those watry Secrets, You have made so clear.
And thô perchance in my Pindarick Flight,
Rais'd to a too-ambitious Height,
The Fate of Icarus should prove my Doom;
And angry Phœbus melt my waxen Plume:
Yet mine a much more glorious Lot would be,
Whilst gently I should drop into Your Sea,
Nor give the drowning Flood a Name, but take my Name from Thee.

William Tunstall.