The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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ODE TO GENIUS. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
91
ODE TO GENIUS.
Now by th' Aonian Nymphs inspir'd,
By glowing emulation fir'd!
Of thee I'll sing.—Illustrious Maid!
In peerless majesty array'd!
Who, all creative, all sublime,
First sprang from the ethereal clime,
To bid enraptur'd fancy trace
The bright infinity of space,
Where Fame of pure celestial birth
A starry wreath prepares to crown immortal worth!
Blest Genius! pow'r divine!
Now shall the votive song be thine!
Nor thou the pensive muse disdain,
Who oft, by fancy led, shall rove
To soft Arcadia's myrtle grove,
And tune the past'ral reed or chant the sylvan strain.
By glowing emulation fir'd!
Of thee I'll sing.—Illustrious Maid!
In peerless majesty array'd!
Who, all creative, all sublime,
First sprang from the ethereal clime,
To bid enraptur'd fancy trace
The bright infinity of space,
Where Fame of pure celestial birth
A starry wreath prepares to crown immortal worth!
Blest Genius! pow'r divine!
Now shall the votive song be thine!
92
Who oft, by fancy led, shall rove
To soft Arcadia's myrtle grove,
And tune the past'ral reed or chant the sylvan strain.
Or could her trembling hand aspire
To wake the loud resounding Lyre,
Where Pindus rears its haughty crest,
By thy immortal Laurels drest!
Or on Parnassian heights sublime
Snatch from the passing wing of Time
A Plume, that smiling Hope might lave
Deep in the Heliconian wave!
For thee her burning hand should fling
Ecstatic measures o'er the bounding string!
Nor thou, star-crested Nymph! refuse
The off'rings of an untaught Muse,
Who twines, amidst uncultivated bow'rs,
A small, but fragrant wreath, of Nature's simplest Flow'rs.
To wake the loud resounding Lyre,
Where Pindus rears its haughty crest,
By thy immortal Laurels drest!
Or on Parnassian heights sublime
Snatch from the passing wing of Time
A Plume, that smiling Hope might lave
Deep in the Heliconian wave!
For thee her burning hand should fling
Ecstatic measures o'er the bounding string!
Nor thou, star-crested Nymph! refuse
The off'rings of an untaught Muse,
Who twines, amidst uncultivated bow'rs,
A small, but fragrant wreath, of Nature's simplest Flow'rs.
Proud Parent of supreme delight!
Thou Sun! from whose rich source
The lustrous stream of mental sight
Points to mortality a glorious course!
'Tis thine with magic sweet control
To guide the timid sensate soul;
To mark, on Truth's enlighten'd page,
In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry age,
How empty earthly pow'r appears,
A glitt'ring Phantom! fraught with Fears!
How dark the rugged paths of Life!
How planted with the thorns of strife!
How paltry Wealth! how false the glare
That dazzles round the Regal Chair!
How fragile Beauty's blush! how poor
The Miser, 'midst his countless store!
When o'er the lab'ring Sons of Clay
Thou scorn'st to spread sublime thy broad effulgent Ray!
Thou Sun! from whose rich source
The lustrous stream of mental sight
Points to mortality a glorious course!
'Tis thine with magic sweet control
To guide the timid sensate soul;
93
In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry age,
How empty earthly pow'r appears,
A glitt'ring Phantom! fraught with Fears!
How dark the rugged paths of Life!
How planted with the thorns of strife!
How paltry Wealth! how false the glare
That dazzles round the Regal Chair!
How fragile Beauty's blush! how poor
The Miser, 'midst his countless store!
When o'er the lab'ring Sons of Clay
Thou scorn'st to spread sublime thy broad effulgent Ray!
O Genius! at thy view,
Low in the dust, the grovelling crew
Fall, stricken like the summer Fly,
'Midst torrid radiance doom'd to die;
Whilst thou! whose tow'ring mind
No base or sordid spells can bind,
Far, far from human woe canst rise,
To purer joys! to brighter skies!
As the triumphant eagle bends his flight,
To lave his Lordly Wing in Floods of burning Light!
Low in the dust, the grovelling crew
Fall, stricken like the summer Fly,
'Midst torrid radiance doom'd to die;
Whilst thou! whose tow'ring mind
No base or sordid spells can bind,
Far, far from human woe canst rise,
To purer joys! to brighter skies!
As the triumphant eagle bends his flight,
To lave his Lordly Wing in Floods of burning Light!
Oft have I seen thee, sportive! wild!
Frolic Nature's playful child!
With infant sweetness, weaving boughs,
To hang on fickle Fancy's brows!
Then wouldst thou snatch the rose-deck'd Lyre,
And with thy airy fingers play,
In measures madly gay,
A song that might e'en Apathy inspire!
Then, sated with the 'witching sound,
Dash thy rapt Lyre upon the ground!
And o'er thy gaudy wreath
Such strains of tender Pity breathe,
So soft! so touching! so alluring!
All the wounds of Passion curing!
That madd'ning Rage itself, subdu'd,
List'ning stood, in melting mood!
And Folly, wond'ring at thy pow'rs,
Dropp'd from her giddy hand her Wreath of pois'nous Flow'rs!
Frolic Nature's playful child!
94
To hang on fickle Fancy's brows!
Then wouldst thou snatch the rose-deck'd Lyre,
And with thy airy fingers play,
In measures madly gay,
A song that might e'en Apathy inspire!
Then, sated with the 'witching sound,
Dash thy rapt Lyre upon the ground!
And o'er thy gaudy wreath
Such strains of tender Pity breathe,
So soft! so touching! so alluring!
All the wounds of Passion curing!
That madd'ning Rage itself, subdu'd,
List'ning stood, in melting mood!
And Folly, wond'ring at thy pow'rs,
Dropp'd from her giddy hand her Wreath of pois'nous Flow'rs!
I've seen thee, spurning solemn Fools,
Mock the vaunted lore of schools;
And laugh to scorn the Pedant's art,
That hides, in Learning's Garb, the dull deceitful Heart!
Mock the vaunted lore of schools;
And laugh to scorn the Pedant's art,
That hides, in Learning's Garb, the dull deceitful Heart!
I've seen thee, dress'd in awful pride,
With calm-brow'd Wisdom by thy side,
Unfolding precepts richly fraught
With Sense acute! and Depth of Thought!
Decking the hoary front of Time
With many a sober wreath, sublime!
While Eloquence, her store unbound,
Scatter'd her fairest blossoms round!
And Hist'ry, with recording finger, trac'd
Scenes by expiring Ignorance half-effac'd;
Whilst Thou from cold Oblivion's cave
Led the pale shadows of the sainted Brave!
Ah! then I've seen thee stamp each name
On the unperishable rolls of Fame!
And, smiling o'er the consecrated page,
Anticipate the Boast of many a future Age!
With calm-brow'd Wisdom by thy side,
95
With Sense acute! and Depth of Thought!
Decking the hoary front of Time
With many a sober wreath, sublime!
While Eloquence, her store unbound,
Scatter'd her fairest blossoms round!
And Hist'ry, with recording finger, trac'd
Scenes by expiring Ignorance half-effac'd;
Whilst Thou from cold Oblivion's cave
Led the pale shadows of the sainted Brave!
Ah! then I've seen thee stamp each name
On the unperishable rolls of Fame!
And, smiling o'er the consecrated page,
Anticipate the Boast of many a future Age!
I've seen thee through the soul diffuse
Th' electric fire that warms the Muse!
When o'er the Poet's breast
Thou fling'st thy sunny vest;
And stoop'st his throbbing brow to bind
With wings, to waft the soaring mind
Beyond the mists of mortal day!
While from thy piercing eye,
Resplendent as its Parent Sky,
A stream of light shot forth, to mark his glorious Way!
Th' electric fire that warms the Muse!
When o'er the Poet's breast
Thou fling'st thy sunny vest;
And stoop'st his throbbing brow to bind
With wings, to waft the soaring mind
Beyond the mists of mortal day!
While from thy piercing eye,
Resplendent as its Parent Sky,
A stream of light shot forth, to mark his glorious Way!
96
Ah! lost to bliss are those,
Low-thoughted! dull of Soul!
Who, plodding through life's weedy woes,
Ne'er felt the thrilling pow'r
That marks the intellectual hour;
Nor, where Pierian fountains roll,
Panted to taste the clear immortal wave
That heals the wounds of Fate, and flows beyond the Grave!
Low-thoughted! dull of Soul!
Who, plodding through life's weedy woes,
Ne'er felt the thrilling pow'r
That marks the intellectual hour;
Nor, where Pierian fountains roll,
Panted to taste the clear immortal wave
That heals the wounds of Fate, and flows beyond the Grave!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |