 | Two Odes |  |
17
ODE TO OBLIVION.
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I.
Parent of Ease! Oblivion old,Who lov'st thy dwelling-place to hold,
Where sceptred Pluto keeps his dreary sway,
Whose sullen pride the shiv'ring ghosts obey!
Thou who delightest still to dwell
By some hoar and moss-grown cell,
At whose dank foot Cocytus joys to roll,
Or Styx' black streams, which even Jove controul!
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To chuse the tinkling weeping rill,
Hard by whose side the seeded poppy red
Heaves high in air his sweetly curling head,
While creeping in meanders slow
Lethe's drowzy waters flow,
And hollow blasts, which never cease to sigh,
Hum to each care-struck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
A prey no longer let me be
To that gossip Memory,
Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To spread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With Thee, Oblivion, let me go,
For Memory's a friend to Woe;
With thee, Forgetfulness, fair silent Queen,
The solemn stole of grief is never seen.
II.
All, all is thine. Thy pow'rful swayThe throng'd poetick hosts obey.
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At thy command they darken in the rear.
What tho' the modern Tragick strain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet thro' the Nine, like whelps of currish kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
Sacred to thee the Crambo Rhime,
The motley forms of Pantomime:
For Thee from Eunuch's throat still loves to flow
The soothing sadness of his warbled woe:
Each day to Thee falls Pamphlet clean:
Each month a new-born Magazine:
Hear then, O Goddess, hear thy vot'ry's pray'r!
And if Thou deign'st to take one moment's care,
Attend Thy Bard! who duly pays
The tribute of his votive lays;
Whose Muse still offers at thy sacred shrine;—
Thy Bard, who calls Thee His, and makes Him Thine.
O sweet Forgetfulness, supreme
Rule supine o'er ev'ry theme,
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Of mine, O Goddess, stretch thine awful reign!
Nor let Mem'ry steal one note,
Which this rude hand to Thee hath wrote!
So shalt thou save me from the Poet's shame,
Tho' on the letter'd Rubrick Dodsley post my Name.
III.
O come! with opiate poppies crown'd,Shedding slumbers soft around!
O come, fat Goddess, drunk with Falstaff's sack!—
See, where she sits on the benumb'd Torpedo's back!
Me in thy dull Elysium lapt, O bless
With thy calm Forgetfulness!
And gently lull my senses all the while
With placid poems in the sinking stile!
Whether the Herring-Poet sing,
Great Laureat of the Fishes' King,
Or Lycophron prophetick rave his fill,
Wrapt in the darker strains of Johnny—;
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A bevy of the choicest words,
Who meets his Lady Muse by moss-grown cell,
Adorn'd with epithet and tinkling bell:
These, Goddess, let me still forget,
With all the dearth of Modern Wit!
So may'st Thou gently o'er my youthful breast
Spread with thy welcome hand Oblivion's friendly vest.
| Two Odes | |