 | An ode, Occasioned by reading Mr. West's Translation of Pindar |  |
Audire magnos jam videor Duces,
Non indecoro Pulvere Sordidos.
Hor. Od. I. Lib. II.
Non indecoro Pulvere Sordidos.
Hor. Od. I. Lib. II.
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[Albion rejoice! thy Sons a Voice divine have heard]
STROPHE I.
Albion rejoice! thy Sons a Voice divine have heard,The Man of Thebes hath in thy Vales appear'd!
Hark! with fresh Rage and undiminish'd Fire,
The sweet Enthusiast smites the British Lyre;
The Sounds that echoed once on Alpheus' Streams,
Reach the delighted Ear of listening Thames;
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Great Theron's foaming Coursers strain!
What mortal Tongue e'er roll'd along
Such full, impetuous Tides of nervous Song?
ANTISTROPHE I.
The fearful, frigid Lays of cold, and creeping Art,Nor touch, nor can transport th'unfeeling Heart;
Pindar, our inmost Bosom piercing, warms
With Glory's Love, and eager Thirst of Arms:
When Freedom speaks in his majestic Strain,
The Patriot-Passions beat in every Vein:
We long to sit with Heroes old,
'Mid Groves of vegetable Gold,
Where Cadmus and Achilles dwell,
And still of daring Deeds and Dangers tell.
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EPODE I.
Away, enervate Bards, away,Who spin the courtly, silken Lay,
As Wreaths for some vain Louis' Head,
Or mourn some soft Adonis dead:
No more your polish'd Lyrics boast,
In British Pindar's Strength o'erwhelm'd and lost:
As well might ye compare,
The glimmerings of a waxen Flame,
(Emblem of Verse correctly tame)
To his own Ætna's Sulphur-spouting Caves,
When to Heaven's Vault the fiery Deluge raves,
When Clouds and burning Rocks dart thro' the troubled Air.
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STROPHE II.
In roaring Cataracts down Andes' hollow Steeps,Mark how enormous Orellana sweeps!
Monarch of mighty Floods! supremely strong,
Thund'ring from Cliff to Cliff he whirls along,
Swoln with a hundred Hills collected Snows:
Thence over nameless Regions widely flows,
Round fragrant Isles, and Citron-Groves,
Where still the naked Indian roves,
And safely builds his leafy Bow'r,
From Slavery far, and curst Iberian Pow'r;
ANTISTROPHE II.
So rapid Pindar flows.—O Parent of the Lyre,Let me for ever thy sweet Sons admire,
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Sounded th'Olympic Heroes matchless Praise,
And next, Euripides, soft Pity's Priest,
Who melts in useful Woes the bleeding Breast,
And him, who sung th'incestuous King,
While Athens trembled at his String;
Teach me to taste their Charms refin'd,
The richest Banquet of the enraptur'd Mind.
EPODE II.
For not the Breath of balmy Spring,Nor Streams in Summer murmuring,
Nor cooling Dates to Indian Swain,
Who faintly treads the torrid Plain,
Nor lofty Mountain that appears
To starving, Tempest-beaten Mariners,
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(Hear this, dull Pedantry and Pride,
That dare the sacred Muse deride)
Nor Feasts of joyous Friends, nor circling Arms
Of blooming Brides unlocking all their Charms,
As from th'enchanting Harps of skilful Poets flow.
FINIS.
| An ode, Occasioned by reading Mr. West's Translation of Pindar | |