Poems By Mr. Smart Viz Reason and Imagination a Fable. Ode to Admiral Sir George Pocock. Ode to General Draper. An Epistle to John Sherratt, Esq |
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 | Poems By Mr. Smart |  |
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ODE TO Admiral Sir GEORGE POCOCK.
1
When CHRIST, the seaman, was aboardSwift as an arrow to the White,
While Ocean his rude rapture roar'd,
The vessel gain'd the Haven with delight:
We therefore first to him the song renew,
Then sing of Pocock's praise, and make the point in view.
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2
The Muse must humble e're she rise,And kneel to kiss her Master's feet,
Thence at one spring she mounts the skies
And in New Salem vindicates her seat;
Seeks to the temple of th'Angelic choir,
And hoists the English Flag upon the topmost spire.
3
O Blessed of the Lord of Hosts,In either India most renown'd,
The Echo of the Eastern coasts,
And all th'Atlantic shores thy name resound.—
The victor's clemency, the seaman's art,
The cool delib'rate head, and warm undaunted heart.
4
My pray'r was with Thee, when thou sail'dWith prophecies of sure success;
My thanks to Heav'n, that thou prevail'd
Shall last as long as I can breathe or bless;
And built upon thy deeds my song shall tow'r,
And swell, as it ascends, in spirit and in pow'r.
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5
There is no thunder half so loud,As God's applauses in the height,
For those, that have his name avow'd,
Ev'n Christian Patriots valorous and great;
Who for the general welfare stand or fall,
And have no sense of self, and know no dread at all.
6
Amongst the numbers lately fir'dTo act upon th'heroic plan,
Grace has no worthier chief inspir'd,
Than that sublime, insuperable man,
Who could th'out-numb'ring French so oft defeat,
And from th'Havannah stor'd his brave victorious fleet.
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And yet how silent his returnWith scarce a welcome to his place—
Stupidity and unconcern,
Were settled in each voice and on each face.
As private as myself he walk'd along,
Unfavour'd by a friend, unfollow'd by the throng.
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8
Thy triumph, therefore, is not here,Thy glories for a while postpon'd,
The hero shines not in his sphere,
But where the Author of all worth is own'd.—
Where Patience still persists to praise and pray
For all the Lord bestows, and all he takes away.
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Not Howard, Forbisher, or Drake,Or Vernon's fam'd Herculean deed;
Not all the miracles of Blake,
Can the great Chart of thine exploits exceed.—
Then rest upon thyself and dwell secure,
And cultivate the arts, and feed th'increasing poor.
10
O Name accustom'd and inur'dTo fame and hardship round the globe,
For which fair Honour has insur'd
The warrior's truncheon, and the consul's robe;
Who still the more is done and understood,
Art easy of access, art affable and good.
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O Name acknowledged and rever'dWhere Isis plays her pleasant stream,
Whene'er thy tale is read or heard,
The good shall bless thee, and the wise esteem;
And they, whose offspring lately felt thy care,
Shall in ten thousand Churches make their daily pray'r.—
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“Connubial bliss and homefelt joy,“And ev'ry social praise be thine;
“Plant thou the oak, the poor employ;
“Or plans of vast benevolence design;
“And speed, when Christ his servant shall release,
“From triumph over death to everlasting peace.”
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ODE TO General DRAPER.
------ Utcunque ferant ea facta minores
Vincat amor patriæ, laudumque immensa cupido.
Virg.
Vincat amor patriæ, laudumque immensa cupido.
Virg.
Noble in Nature, great in arms,
The Muses patron and thyself a bard,
Who sternly rushing from domestic charms
And for thy country tow'ring upon guard,
As born against the foes of human kind,
Preced'st the march alone, and leav'st all rank behind.
A little leisure for a thankful heart,
It's own peculiar workings to attend,
A little leisure to survey the Chart,
Of all thy labours bearing to their end;
To hail Thee, at the head of all renown,
To plan thy private peace, and weave thy laurel crown.
The Muses patron and thyself a bard,
Who sternly rushing from domestic charms
And for thy country tow'ring upon guard,
As born against the foes of human kind,
Preced'st the march alone, and leav'st all rank behind.
A little leisure for a thankful heart,
It's own peculiar workings to attend,
A little leisure to survey the Chart,
Of all thy labours bearing to their end;
To hail Thee, at the head of all renown,
To plan thy private peace, and weave thy laurel crown.
The Fame of Draper is a pile
Of God's erecting in th'embattled field;
An English fabrick in the Roman stile,
To which all meaner elevations yield;
What ho! ye brave lieutenants of the van,
Within a thousand furlongs not a single man.
My Muse is somewhat stronger than she was,
In spite of long calamity and time,
Arouse, Arouse ye! is there not a cause?
Arouse ye lively spirits of my prime!
Breathe, breathe upon the lyre thy parting breath,
There is no thought of him but triumphs over death.
Of God's erecting in th'embattled field;
An English fabrick in the Roman stile,
To which all meaner elevations yield;
What ho! ye brave lieutenants of the van,
Within a thousand furlongs not a single man.
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In spite of long calamity and time,
Arouse, Arouse ye! is there not a cause?
Arouse ye lively spirits of my prime!
Breathe, breathe upon the lyre thy parting breath,
There is no thought of him but triumphs over death.
Ye boys of Eton take your theme,
That heroes from heroic fathers come;
Ye sons of learned Granta draw the scheme
Of Archimedes, on the warriour's drum:
No more let champions scorn the man of parts,
For Draper comes like Marlbro' from the school of arts.
O early train'd and practis'd in desert,
The son of emulation from the womb,
In antient arms and eloquence expert;
And student of the themes of Greece and Rome,
Thou chose Achilles from th'Homeric throng,
Who sinks beneath thy deeds, tho' rais'd upon thy song.
That heroes from heroic fathers come;
Ye sons of learned Granta draw the scheme
Of Archimedes, on the warriour's drum:
No more let champions scorn the man of parts,
For Draper comes like Marlbro' from the school of arts.
O early train'd and practis'd in desert,
The son of emulation from the womb,
In antient arms and eloquence expert;
And student of the themes of Greece and Rome,
Thou chose Achilles from th'Homeric throng,
Who sinks beneath thy deeds, tho' rais'd upon thy song.
A Christian Hero is a name
To bards of Classic eminence unknown,
A heroe, that prefers a higher claim
To God's applause, his country's and his own;
That those, who, tho' the mirrour of their days,
Nor knew the Prince of Worth, nor principle of praise.
Advance, advance a little higher still—
Th'Ideas of an Englishman advance!
Advance above his meaner strength or skill;
Who solely grasps his pen or shakes his lance.
Thy talent ever flows to learning's hoard,
And bore to leisure fruit 'midst peril and the sword.
To bards of Classic eminence unknown,
A heroe, that prefers a higher claim
To God's applause, his country's and his own;
That those, who, tho' the mirrour of their days,
Nor knew the Prince of Worth, nor principle of praise.
Advance, advance a little higher still—
Th'Ideas of an Englishman advance!
Advance above his meaner strength or skill;
Who solely grasps his pen or shakes his lance.
Thy talent ever flows to learning's hoard,
And bore to leisure fruit 'midst peril and the sword.
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O English aspect name and soul,
All English to our joyful ears and eyes!
Thy chariot cleanly risk'd upon the goal
Has brought Thee winner for the Martial Prize;
And interval on interval succeeds,
Before thy second comes to signify his deeds.
A note above the Epic trumpet's reach
Beyond the compass of the various lyre,
The song of all thy deeds, which sires shall teach
Their children active prowess to inspire.—
Thou art a Master—whose exploits shall warm,
The valiant yet to come, and future heroes form.
All English to our joyful ears and eyes!
Thy chariot cleanly risk'd upon the goal
Has brought Thee winner for the Martial Prize;
And interval on interval succeeds,
Before thy second comes to signify his deeds.
A note above the Epic trumpet's reach
Beyond the compass of the various lyre,
The song of all thy deeds, which sires shall teach
Their children active prowess to inspire.—
Thou art a Master—whose exploits shall warm,
The valiant yet to come, and future heroes form.
It is an honest book, that writes
Thy name as worthy honourable lot,
For fair and faithful thy detail recites,
The merits of thy brethren on the spot;
From gallant Monson foremost of th'array,
To him that came the last, yet help'd to win the day.
What tho' no sense of gratitude be shown
As heretofore, to chiefs of meaner rank;
No mason knew thy figure from a stone,
Or painter daub thee staring on a plank;
No groupe of Aldermen proclaim thee free,
And in the Tayler's College give thee thy degree?
Thy name as worthy honourable lot,
For fair and faithful thy detail recites,
The merits of thy brethren on the spot;
From gallant Monson foremost of th'array,
To him that came the last, yet help'd to win the day.
What tho' no sense of gratitude be shown
As heretofore, to chiefs of meaner rank;
No mason knew thy figure from a stone,
Or painter daub thee staring on a plank;
No groupe of Aldermen proclaim thee free,
And in the Tayler's College give thee thy degree?
What tho' no bonfires be display'd,
Nor windows light up the nocturnal scene;
What tho' the merry ringer is not paid,
Nor rockets shoot upon the still Serene;
Tho' no matross upon the rampart runs,
To send out thy report from loud redoubling guns?
What tho' thy precious health does not go round,
Where'er the gormandizing sinner dines;
Thy name be kept in secrecy profound,
O'er female converse and loquacious wines;
What tho' th'astonish'd rustic does not sawn,
On Draper made of wax, or on the bellows drawn?
Nor windows light up the nocturnal scene;
What tho' the merry ringer is not paid,
Nor rockets shoot upon the still Serene;
Tho' no matross upon the rampart runs,
To send out thy report from loud redoubling guns?
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Where'er the gormandizing sinner dines;
Thy name be kept in secrecy profound,
O'er female converse and loquacious wines;
What tho' th'astonish'd rustic does not sawn,
On Draper made of wax, or on the bellows drawn?
No coin the medalists devise,
With thankful captives crowding the Reverse;
Or Plutus leading Merit to the prize,
Or Albion wailing More's untimely hearse;
What tho' no bawling ballad singers rend
The skies with joy for thee, or dirges for thy friend?
Not monumental marble or the life
Upon the rival canvass aptly feign'd,
Nor City-Speaker, licensed by his wife,
To skrew up panygyric bridg'd and strain'd;
Not glass adorn'd with mottos and with boughs,
Nor fires that light the mob to roar and to carouse.
With thankful captives crowding the Reverse;
Or Plutus leading Merit to the prize,
Or Albion wailing More's untimely hearse;
What tho' no bawling ballad singers rend
The skies with joy for thee, or dirges for thy friend?
Not monumental marble or the life
Upon the rival canvass aptly feign'd,
Nor City-Speaker, licensed by his wife,
To skrew up panygyric bridg'd and strain'd;
Not glass adorn'd with mottos and with boughs,
Nor fires that light the mob to roar and to carouse.
Not the round peal or guns salute,
Pronouncing still that Draper is the toast;
Not youth and blooming beauty, bearing fruit
To Justice, as they make A Man their boast;
Not Salmon's wax-work or the hackney muse,
Not all the prose and verse of all the Grub-street news.
Not any thing they have denied to Thee,
Is half so great as that which you possess;
The patriot's hand, the honest parson's knee,
And the Great British Monarch's love express;
And if I may presume upon my mite,
This rough unbidden verse, that aims to do thee right.
Pronouncing still that Draper is the toast;
Not youth and blooming beauty, bearing fruit
To Justice, as they make A Man their boast;
Not Salmon's wax-work or the hackney muse,
Not all the prose and verse of all the Grub-street news.
Not any thing they have denied to Thee,
Is half so great as that which you possess;
The patriot's hand, the honest parson's knee,
And the Great British Monarch's love express;
And if I may presume upon my mite,
This rough unbidden verse, that aims to do thee right.
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Stupendous, surely, is thy chance,
If such a man as thou shou'd be despis'd;
Advance—thy fav'rite word—advance, advance
To take thy rank with worthies in the skies;
The Captain of ten thousand in the sphere,
Where Michael draws the sword or throws the glitt'ring spear.
Thyself and seed for which there is no doom,
Race rising upon race in goodly pride;
Shall ever flourish root, and branch, and bloom,
Shall flourish tow'ring high and spreading wide;
To carry God's applauses in their heart,
To shew an English face, and act an English part.
If such a man as thou shou'd be despis'd;
Advance—thy fav'rite word—advance, advance
To take thy rank with worthies in the skies;
The Captain of ten thousand in the sphere,
Where Michael draws the sword or throws the glitt'ring spear.
Thyself and seed for which there is no doom,
Race rising upon race in goodly pride;
Shall ever flourish root, and branch, and bloom,
Shall flourish tow'ring high and spreading wide;
To carry God's applauses in their heart,
To shew an English face, and act an English part.
AN EPISTLE TO JOHN SHERRATT, Esq
Hæc mihi semper erunt imis infixa medullis,
Perpetuusque ANIMI debitor HUJUS ero.
Ovid de Trist. Eleg. iv.
Perpetuusque ANIMI debitor HUJUS ero.
Ovid de Trist. Eleg. iv.
Of all the off'rings thanks can find,
None equally delights the mind;
Or charms so much, or holds so long.
As gratitude express'd in song.
We reckon all the Book of Grace
By verses, as the source we trace,
And in the spirit all is great
By number, melody and weight.
By nature's light each heathen sage,
Has thus adorn'd th'immortal page;
Demosthenes and Plato's prose,
From skill in mystic measure flows;
And Rolt's sublime, historic stile,
Is better that the Muses smile.
Take then from heartiness profest,
What in the bard's conceit is best;
The golden sheaf desertion gleans
For want of better helps and means.
None equally delights the mind;
Or charms so much, or holds so long.
As gratitude express'd in song.
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By verses, as the source we trace,
And in the spirit all is great
By number, melody and weight.
By nature's light each heathen sage,
Has thus adorn'd th'immortal page;
Demosthenes and Plato's prose,
From skill in mystic measure flows;
And Rolt's sublime, historic stile,
Is better that the Muses smile.
Take then from heartiness profest,
What in the bard's conceit is best;
The golden sheaf desertion gleans
For want of better helps and means.
Well nigh sev'n years had fill'd their tale,
From Winter's urn to Autumn's scale,
And found no friend to grief and Smart,
Like Thee and Her, thy sweeter part;
Assisted by a friendly pair
That chose the side of Christ and Pray'r,
To build the great foundation laid,
By one sublime, transcendent maid.
'Tis well to signalize a deed,
And have no precedent to plead;
'Tis blessing as by God we're told,
To come and visit friends in hold;
Which skill is greater in degree,
If goodness set the pris'ner free.
'Tis you that have in my behalf,
Produc'd the robe and kill'd the calf;
Have hail'd the restoration day,
And bid the loudest music play.
If therefore there is yet a note
Upon the lyre, that I devote,
To gratitude's divinest strains,
One gift of love for thee remains;
One gift above the common cast,
Of making fair memorials last.
From Winter's urn to Autumn's scale,
And found no friend to grief and Smart,
Like Thee and Her, thy sweeter part;
Assisted by a friendly pair
That chose the side of Christ and Pray'r,
To build the great foundation laid,
By one sublime, transcendent maid.
'Tis well to signalize a deed,
And have no precedent to plead;
'Tis blessing as by God we're told,
To come and visit friends in hold;
Which skill is greater in degree,
If goodness set the pris'ner free.
'Tis you that have in my behalf,
Produc'd the robe and kill'd the calf;
Have hail'd the restoration day,
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If therefore there is yet a note
Upon the lyre, that I devote,
To gratitude's divinest strains,
One gift of love for thee remains;
One gift above the common cast,
Of making fair memorials last.
Not He whose highly finish'd piece,
Outshone the chissel'd forms of Greece;
Who found with all his art and fame,
A part'ner in the house I claim;
Not he that pencils Charlotte's eyes,
And boldly bids for Romney's prize;
Not both the seats, where arts commune
Can blazon like a word in tune;
But this our young scholasticks con,
As warrant from th'Appulian Swan.
Then let us frame our steps to climb,
Beyond the sphere of chance and time,
And raise our thoughts on Holy Writ,
O'er mortal works and human wit.
The lively acts of Christian Love,
Are treasur'd in the rolls above;
Where Archangelic concerts ring,
And God's accepted poets sing.
So Virtue's plan to parry praise,
Cannot obtain in after days,
Atchievements in the Christian cause,
Ascend to sure and vast applause;
Where Glory fixes to endure
All precious, permanent and pure.
Of such a class in such a sphere,
Shall thy distinguish'd deed appear;
Whose spirit open and avow'd
Array'd itself against the croud,
With chearfulness so much thine own,
And all thy motive God alone;
To run thy keel across the boom,
And save my vessel from her doom,
And cut her from the pirate's port,
Beneath the cannon of the fort,
With colours fresh, and sails unfurl'd,
Was nobly dar'd to beat the world;
And stands for ever on record,
If Truth and Life be God and Lord.
Outshone the chissel'd forms of Greece;
Who found with all his art and fame,
A part'ner in the house I claim;
Not he that pencils Charlotte's eyes,
And boldly bids for Romney's prize;
Not both the seats, where arts commune
Can blazon like a word in tune;
But this our young scholasticks con,
As warrant from th'Appulian Swan.
Then let us frame our steps to climb,
Beyond the sphere of chance and time,
And raise our thoughts on Holy Writ,
O'er mortal works and human wit.
The lively acts of Christian Love,
Are treasur'd in the rolls above;
Where Archangelic concerts ring,
And God's accepted poets sing.
So Virtue's plan to parry praise,
Cannot obtain in after days,
Atchievements in the Christian cause,
Ascend to sure and vast applause;
Where Glory fixes to endure
All precious, permanent and pure.
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Shall thy distinguish'd deed appear;
Whose spirit open and avow'd
Array'd itself against the croud,
With chearfulness so much thine own,
And all thy motive God alone;
To run thy keel across the boom,
And save my vessel from her doom,
And cut her from the pirate's port,
Beneath the cannon of the fort,
With colours fresh, and sails unfurl'd,
Was nobly dar'd to beat the world;
And stands for ever on record,
If Truth and Life be God and Lord.
CHRISTOPHER SMART.
| Poems By Mr. Smart | |