The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
ODE TO GENIUS. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
173
ODE TO GENIUS.
Thou child of nature, genius strong,
Thou master of the poet's song,
Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly warbling Shakespeare bore;
Whom every muse endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that sacred rill,
Whose silver streams flow musical along,
Where Phœbus' hallow'd mount resounds with raptur'd song.
Thou master of the poet's song,
Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,
Where Fancy, bright aerial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms.
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly warbling Shakespeare bore;
Whom every muse endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that sacred rill,
Whose silver streams flow musical along,
Where Phœbus' hallow'd mount resounds with raptur'd song.
Forsake not thou the vocal choir,
Their breasts revisit with thy genial fire,
Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not near the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order set,
On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhyme still tinkling in the close,
While pure description shines in measur'd prose.
Thou bear'st aloof, and look'st with high disdain,
Upon the dull mechanic train;
Whose nerveless strains flag on in languid tone,
Liseless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.
Their breasts revisit with thy genial fire,
Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Tickle the ear, but come not near the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order set,
On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhyme still tinkling in the close,
While pure description shines in measur'd prose.
174
Upon the dull mechanic train;
Whose nerveless strains flag on in languid tone,
Liseless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy drone.
No longer now thy altars blaze,
No poet offers up his lays;
Inspir'd with energy divine,
To worship at thy sacred shrine.
Since taste with absolute domain,
Extending wide her leaden reign,
Kills with her melancholy shade,
The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree;
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd
In many a wreath of richest poesie.
For when the oak denies her stay,
The creeping ivy winds her humble way;
No more she twists her branches round,
But drags her seeble stem along the barren ground.
No poet offers up his lays;
Inspir'd with energy divine,
To worship at thy sacred shrine.
Since taste with absolute domain,
Extending wide her leaden reign,
Kills with her melancholy shade,
The blooming scyons of fair fancy's tree;
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd
In many a wreath of richest poesie.
For when the oak denies her stay,
The creeping ivy winds her humble way;
No more she twists her branches round,
But drags her seeble stem along the barren ground.
Where then shall exil'd genius go?
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name,
Whose sober rhymes in even tenour flow;
Who prey on words, and all their flow'rets cull,
Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why sleep the sons of genius now?
Why, Wartons, rests the lyre unstrung?
And thou, blest bard! around whose sacred brow,
Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:
Arise, and snatch the majesty of song
From dullness' servile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.
Since only those the laurel claim,
And boast them of the poet's name,
Whose sober rhymes in even tenour flow;
175
Coldly correct, and regularly dull.
Why sleep the sons of genius now?
Why, Wartons, rests the lyre unstrung?
And thou, blest bard! around whose sacred brow,
Great Pindar's delegated wreath is hung:
Arise, and snatch the majesty of song
From dullness' servile tribe, and art's unhallow'd throng.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |