An ode on the powers of poetry To which are prefixed observations on taste, And on the Present State of Poetry and Criticism in England [by Thomas Cooke] |
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 | An ode on the powers of poetry |  |
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AN ODE ON THE POWERS OF POETRY.
TO HIS GRACE LIONEL Duke of DORSET.
I
Fairest and divinest Queen,Offspring of th'Olympic Sire,
At the World's Foundation seen
Active with thy golden Lyre,
Who in ev'ry Deed of Pow'r,
And in ev'ry Part of Space,
From the first creative Hour,
Shew'd thy sweet majestic Face,
Imperial Muse, aweful at once and mild,
Come, Goddess, come, with Harmony thy Child,
And bring the Loves, the Graces bring along,
And bring the Seasons to adorn my Song;
8
To thee, to Virtue, and to Fame:
To Dorset, Goddess, would I give
What longer than an Age shall live:
Search, sov'reign Queen, the Grecian Tales,
Range thro Hesperia's flow'ry Vales,
Review the various Notes which swell
The Theban and the Roman Shell,
Then chuse a fairer Pledge, a brighter Crown,
Of sweeter Blossoms wove a Chaplet bring,
Than e'er enrich'd those Children of Renown,
Great Cæsar or proud Agrigentum's King.
II
Sweetly magnificent and strong,O! Sackville, are the Pow'rs of Song,
All godlike and magnetic all!
At Poetry's divine Command
Shall Castles rise, shall rise and stand
Firm as the Pillars of this earthly Ball.
The pelting Storm and solar Ray
Shall Tow'rs of Marble wear away:
The gorgeous Palace of the Sun,
In a poetic Fury rais'd,
Shall be by all admir'd and prais'd,
While the bright Car shall round the Zodiac run.
Time, dreadful with his iron Blade,
Destroys each unsung Lawn and Shade,
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E'en Beauty with her radiant Eyes,
In Empires where no Poets rise,
Is mow'd with Princes unrecorded down.
Still Delia charms with all her Wiles,
And Lalage still sweetly smiles;
Baia has still her soft Retreats:
Arcadia has her bleating Flocks,
And still Bœotia's barren Rocks
Flourish, because they are the Muses' Seats.
III
Time the Land with Ruin fills,To his Scythe the Cedar falls,
And the adamantine Hills
Crumble like the plaister'd Walls:
Yet his fatal Edge so keen
Never shall deface a Flow'r,
Planted by th'harmonic Queen
Or in a Valley, Hill or Bow'r:
She'll place a Chaplet on December's Brow,
While seated shiv'ring on a Throne of Snow:
Of ev'ry Sweet she will his Wreath compose;
May the Narcissus gives, and June the Rose:
The Vi'let and the Jessamine
Shall round his hoary Temples twine;
And on his frozen Breast shall rise
The Woodbine and the Pheasant's Eyes,
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Shall in each Hand a Cluster place,
Whose Juices shall his Cares beguile,
And make the Wretch distorted smile:
July's Carnation by his Side shall grow,
His Feet benumb'd shall on the Lilly tread;
For him the Lote and Asphodel shall blow,
And party-colour'd Iris raise her Head.
IV
Buckhurst, behold the antic Form,Bidding Defiance to the Storm,
Protected by the Muse's Hands:
Blow Boreas, and ye eastern Winds,
Come the sharp Air that Ocean binds,
Yet Winter dress'd in Summer's Garment stands:
But O! what can not Verse bestow
More lasting than an Angelo,
Verse that from Heav'n derives its Birth!
That to my early'st Love may give
To Ages far remote to live,
And call Maria from her Parent Earth.
Long has the Maid, for whom my Heart
First sigh'd and felt a Lover's Smart,
Lain in the clay-cold Arms of Death;
But in poetic Vision now
I see my Cytherea's Brow,
Who oft' to Zephyrs have compar'd her Breath!
11
To view his gently rolling Tyde,
We by the bending Alders stood;
But other Objects were my Care
More than the Stream, while standing there
I call'd her the fair Naiad of the Flood.
V
Gentle Chelmer may thy WaveLong refresh the fruitful Lands,
Long the winding Valley lave,
Where my lov'd Fel'stelda stands,
Felsted Pride of Essex Plains,
And the Nurse of gen'rous Youth,
Where my wild unpolish'd Strains
First engag'd the Virgin's Truth!
Verse from a Soul inspir'd is sure to move;
Verse is the Magnet, and the Balm, of Love:
Verse can the Rage of troubled Seas compose;
Rais'd from the Waves by Verse bright Venus rose.
Did not the potent Muse preside,
Of happy Births and Loves the Guide,
From Jove supreme had never sprung
Phœbus, nor Bacchus, ever young,
Nor Pallas, dreadful with her Spear,
With Olive had adorn'd the Year,
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From Councils resolute and wise:
'Twas Poetry that in the sylvan Shade
First wak'd the Pipe of universal Pan;
She led the Dance of Satyrs in the Glade,
And spread the Vintage God's mysterious Van.
VI
She sings awhile the Hopes and PainsOf rural Nymphs and blameless Swains,
The lowing Herds, and silver Streams:
Awhile she leaves the Woods and Fields,
For thirsty Darts and burnish'd Shields,
And War and Devastation are her Themes:
Proud Ilion's Streets are stain'd with Blood,
Scamander rolls his purple Flood,
Ajax and stern Pelides rage:
Fierce and inexorable they
Spread pallid Fear and wild Dismay,
While Gods and Goddesses in Arms engage.
The Clash of Armour, and the Cries
Of Trojan Dames, ascend the Skies,
And shrieking all from Pyrrhus run:
The boldest Hearts confess the Fright,
When crackling Flames alarm the Night
From dire Achilles dreadful in his Son:
Such the Revenge of injur'd Kings,
The Woes which foul Dishonour brings,
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Children, and Wives, to Exile led,
The Sorrows of th'offended Bed,
The Lands Destruction, and extinguish'd Race.
VII
May the happy Season come,When to Englishmen unborn
I may bid the British Drum
Rouse on Gallic Plains the Morn:
Then the noble Epic Muse
Shall the gallant Steed prepare,
'E're the Sun exhales the Dews,
For our warlike Edward's Heir:
Young Edward then in solemn Pace shall ride
With France's Monarch Captive by his Side,
While from Augusta's Walls the People throng,
And hail him Home with a triumphant Song:
Or if the Region of my Breast
Should be with Alfred's Deeds possess'd,
Enamour'd with the Tale I'll sing
The Troubles of the patriot King,
To grapple with Misfortunes wise,
By virtuous Courage born to rise,
Ordain'd by Heav'n to bless the Land
With righteous Laws and mild Command:
But these the Labours of unruffled Hours,
Of Minds disturb'd not by the impious Train,
The Fool's Intrusion, which the Temper sours,
The Tongue mendacious, and the Boaster vain.
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VIII
The Muse beneath the spreading Trees,Scarce moving to the western Breez,
Best meditates the lofty Lay:
Amidst the lowly Swains she sings
The Actions of heroic Kings,
And to her Song invites the God of Day:
Charm'd with the Theme he leaves his Car,
And helps to range the Files of War
Along the solitary Shores:
In silent Vales where Cowslips blow,
And the smooth Stream scarce seems to flow,
The Battel rages and the Welkin roars:
Where Shepherds, with their humble Reeds,
Make joyful the enamel'd Meads,
She bids the clam'rous Trumpet sound:
The Townsmen shall defend the Walls,
Till the last shatter'd Fragment falls,
And Earth and Heav'n shall with the Noise rebound.
In Solitude the Poet guards
The Fame of Princes, and rewards
Their Virtues with eternal Praise:
While, Dorset, I thy Worth proclaim,
I add fresh Honours to my Name,
And crown my Temples with unfading Bays.
IX
Regent of melodious Airs,Soft'ner of the savage Breast,
Sweet Dispeller of our Cares,
Who could give Ixion Rest,
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As thy antient Prophets tell,
And to Orpheus rais'd a Friend
In the surly God of Hell,
Thy sacred Influence on Britannia shed,
Pour, like the Sun, on each benighted Head
The Heart enliv'ning and inspiring Rays,
And bless our Island with poetic Days:
No longer, to our Country's Shame,
Let base Pretenders use thy Name;
Nor let the loose and trifling Page
Of Ignorance mislead the Age:
The Buskin to our Scene restore,
Make it what Athens was before;
Then shall the Stage to British Youth
Become the polish'd School of Truth:
All Beauty thou, and tho divine thy Pow'rs,
Sprung of th'eternal Mind, and at thy Birth
Tho danc'd thy sister Graces and the Hours,
Yet hast thou often deign'd to visit Earth!
X
The Goddess now the Ground disdains,She now forsakes the level Plains,
For purer Worlds which roll above:
Swifter than Arrows from the Bow
She wings her Flight from all below,
To range in Saturn's aromatic Grove:
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With Fragrancy that never cloys,
Beside the clear and dimpled Stream;
Where deathless Birds are on the Wing,
While Voices more than human sing,
And Love, celestial Love, the pleasing Theme.
In Arborets of Sweets retir'd,
The Bards of old, whom Heav'n inspir'd,
Now purg'd of ev'ry earthly Pain,
With Kings for whom the Lyre they strung,
And guitless Heros whom they sung,
And Plato with his academic Train,
Delighted join the social Hour:
Superior none in Rank or Pow'r.
Among th'illustrious Shades are seen:
Amidst them, with prophetic Eyes.
The Muse, prepar'd for Dorset, spies
A stately Palace of immortal Green.
The End.
Felsted as it is now called (the famous School in which was founded in the Year 1564) is written in antient Records Felsted, Feldested, Felestelda, Phenstede, and Felsede; and the two last Names are in Doomsday-book: it stands on the River Chelmer, in an extraordinary pleasant and healthful Situation.
| An ode on the powers of poetry | |