The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including the Series ...

return to the first and second stanzas with more appetite than he could do, if always cloyed with the same quantities and measures; I cannot see why some use may not be made of Pindar's example, to the great improvement of the English ode. There is certainly a pleasure in beholding any thing that has art and difficulty in the contrivance; especially if it appears so carefully executed, that the difficulty does not show itself, till it is sought for; and that the seeming easiness of the work, first sets us upon the inquiry. Nothing can be called beautiful without proportion. When symmetry and harmony are wanting, neither the eye nor the ear can be pleased. Therefore certainly poetry, which includes painting and music, should not be destitute of them; and of all poetry, especially the ode, whose end and essence is harmony.

Mr. Cowley, in his preface to his Pindaric Odes, speaking of the music of numbers, says, "which sometimes (especially in songs and odes) almost without any thing else, makes an excellent poet."

Having mentioned Mr. Cowley, it may very well be expected, that something should be said of him, at a time when the imitation of Pindar is the theme of our discourse. But there is that

great deference due to the memory, great parts, and learning, of that gentleman, that I think nothing should be objected to the latitude he has taken in his Pindaric odes. The beauty of his verses is an atonement for the irregularity of his stanzas; and though he did not imitate Pindar in the strictness of his numbers, he has very often happily copied him in the force of his figures, and sublimity of his style and sentiments.

Yet I must beg leave to add, that I believe those irregular odes of Mr. Cowley may have been the principal, though innocent, occasion of so many deformed poems since, which, instead of being true pictures of Pindar, have (to use the Italian painters' term) been only caricatures of him, resemblances that, for the most part, have been either horrid or ridiculous.

to copy his brevity, and take the advantage of a re
mark he has made in the last strophe of the same
ode; which take in the paraphrase of Sudorius.

Qui multa paucis stringere commode
Novere, morsus hi facile invidos
Spernunt, & auris mensque pura
Omne supervacuum rejectat.

ODE.

DAUGHTER of Memory, immortal Muse,
Calliope; what poet wilt thou choose,
Of Anna's name to sing?

To whom wilt thou thy fire impart,
Thy lyre, thy voice, and tuneful art;
Whom raise sublime on thy ethereal wing,
And consecrate with dews of thy Castalian spring}

Without thy aid, the most aspiring mind
Must flag beneath, to narrow flights confin'd,
Striving to rise in vain :

Nor e'er can hope with equal lays
To celebrate bright Virtue's praise.
Thy aid obtain'd, ev'n I, the humblest swain,
May climb Pierian heights, and quit the lowly
plain.

High in the starry orb is hung,

And next Alcides' guardian arm,
That harp to which thy Orpheus sung,

Who woods, and rocks, and winds, could

charm;

That harp which on Cyllene's shady hill,
When first the vocal shell was found,

With more than mortal skill
Inventor Hermes taught to sound:
Hermes on bright Latona's son,
By sweet persuasion won,
The wondrous work bestow'd;
Latona's son, to fhine
Indulgent, gave the gift divine:

For my own part, I frankly own my errour in A god the gift, a god th' invention show'd.

having heretofore miscalled a few irregular stanzas a Pindaric ode; and possibly, if others, who have been under the same mistake, would ingenuously confess the truth, they might own, that, never having consulted Pindar himself, they took all his irregularity upon trust; and, finding their account in the great ease with which they could produce odes without being obliged either to measure or design, remained satisfied; and, it may be, were not altogether unwilling to neglect being undeceived.

Though there be little (if any thing) left of Orpheus but his name, yet, if Pausanias was well inforined, we may be assured that brevity was a beauty which he most industriously laboured to preserve in his hymns, notwithstanding, as the same author reports, that they were but few in pumber.

The shortness of the following ode will, I hope, atone for the length of the preface, and, in some measure, for the defects which may be found in it. It consists of the same number of stanzas with that beautiful ode of Pindar, which is the first of his Pythies; and though I was unable to imitate him in any other beauty, I resolved to endeavour

To that high-sounding lyre I tune my strains
A lower note his lofty song disdains

Who sings of Anna's name.

The lyre is struck! the sounds I hear!
O Muse, propitious to my prayer!
O well-known sounds! O Melody, the same
That kindled Mantuan fire, and rais'd Mæonian
flame.

Nor are these sounds to British bards unknown,
Or sparingly reveal'd to one alone:
Witness sweet Spenser's lays :
And witness that immortal song,
As Spenser sweet, as Milton strong,
Which humble Boyue o'er Tiber's flood could

raise,

[praise And mighty William sing with well proportion'd

Rise, fair Augusta, lift thy head,

With golden towers thy front adorn;
Come forth, as comes from Tithon's bed
With cheerful ray the ruddy Morn.
Thy lovely form, add fresh-reviving state,
In crystal flood of Thames survey;

Then bless thy better fate,
Bless Anna's most auspicious sway.

While distant realms and neighbouring lands, | Attempt not to proceed, unwary Muse,

Arm'd troops and hostile bands

On every side molest :

Thy happier clime is free,

Fair Capital of Liberty!

And plenty knows, and days of halcyon rest.

As Britain's isle, when old vex'd Ocean roars,
Unshaken sees against her silver shores

His foaming billows beat;

So Britain's queen, amidst the jars
And tumults of a world in wars,

Fix'd on the base of her well-founded state, Serene and safe looks down, nor feels the shocks of fate.

But greatest souls, though blest with sweet repose,

Are soonest touch'd with sense of others' woes. Thus Anna's mighty mind,

To mercy and soft pity prone,

And mov'd with sorrows not her own,
Has all her peace and downy rest resign'd,
To wake for common good, and succour human-
kind.

Fly, Tyranny; no more be known
Within Europa's blissful bound;
Far as th' unhabitable zone
Fly every hospitable ground.

To horrid Zembla's frozen realms repair,
There with the baleful beldam, Night,
Unpeopled empire share,

And rob those lands of legal right.
For now is come the promis'd hour,
When Justice shall have power;
Justice to Earth restor'd!

Again Astrea reigns!.

Anna her equal scale maintains,

[hand

And Marlborough wields her sure-deciding sword.
Now, couldst thou soar, my Muse, to sing the man
In heights sublime, as when the Mantuan swan
Her towering pinions spread;
Thou should'st of Marlborough sing, whose
Unerring from his queen's command,
Far as the seven-mouth'd Ister's secret head,
To save th' imperial state, her hardy Britons led.

Nor there thy song should end; though all the
Nine

Might well their harps and heavenly voices join
To sing that glorious day,

When bold Bavaria fled the field,
And veteran Gauls, unus'd to yield,
On Blenheim's plain imploring mercy lay;
And spoils and trophies won, perplex'd the victor's
way.

But could thy voice of Blenheim sing,
And with success that song pursue;
What art could aid thy wearied wing
To keep the victor still in view?

For as the Sun ne'er stops his radiant flight,
Nor sets, but with impartial ray

To all who want his light

Alternately transfers the day:
So in the glorious round of fame,
Great Marlborough, still the same,
Incessant runs his course:

To clines remote and near

His conquering arms by turns appear,
And universal is his aid and force.

For O! what notes, what numbers could'st thou
Though in all numbers skill'd,

[choose,

To sing the hero's matchless deed,
Which Belgia sav'd, and Brabant freed;
To sing Ramillia's day to which must yield
Canne's illustrious fight, and fam'd Pharsalia's
field?

In the short course of a diurnal Sun,
Behold the work of many ages done!

What verse such worth can raise ?
Lustre and life, the poet's art

To middle virtue may impart;

But deeds sublime, exalted high like these, Transcend his utmost flight, and mock his distant praise.

Still would the willing Muse aspire,

With transport still her strains prolong;
But fear unstrings the trembling lyre,
And admiration stops her song.

Go on, great chief, in Anna's cause proceed;
Nor sheath the terrours of thy sword,

Till Europe thou hast freed,

And universal peace restor❜d.

This mighty work when thou shalt end,
Equal rewards attend,

Of value far above

Thy trophies and thy spoils;

Rewards ev'n worthy of thy toils,

The queen's just favour, and thy country's love

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

EARL OF GODOLPHIN,

LORD HIGH-TREASURER OF GREAT BRITAIN. "

PINDARIC ode.

-Quemvis mediâ erue turbâ:

Aut ob avaritiam, aut miserâ ambitione laborat. Hunc capit argenti splendor——————

Hic mutat merces surgente à sole, ad eum quo Vespertina tepet regio: quin per mare præceps Fertur

Omnes hi metuunt versus, odêre poetas.

Hor. 1. i. Sat.

To hazardous attempts and hardy toils
Ambition some excites;

And some desire of martial spoils
To bloody fields invites ;

Others insatiate thirst of gain
Provokes to tempt the dangerous main,
To pass the burning line, and bear

Th' inclemency of winds, and seas, and air; Pressing the doubtful voyage till India's shore Her spicy bosom bares, and spreads her shining ore, Nor widows' tears, nor tender orphans' cries, Can stop th' invader's force;

Nor swelling seas, nor threatening skies,
Prevent the pirate's course :

Their lives to selfish ends decreed,
Through blood or rapine they proceed;
No anxious thoughts of ill repute

Suspend th' impetuous and unjust pursuit:
But power and wealth obtain'd, guilty and great,
Their fellow-creatures fears they raise, or urge their

bate.

But not for these his ivory lyre

Will tuneful Phoebus string,

Nor Polyhymnia, crown'd amid the choir,
Th' immortal epode sing.

Thy springs, Castalia, turn their streams aside
From rapine, avarice, and pride;

Nor do thy greens, shady Aonia, grow

To bind with wreaths a tyrant's brow.

How just, most mighty Jove, yet how severe,
Is thy supreme decree,

That impious men shall joyless hear
The Muse's harmony!

Their sacred songs, (the recompense

Of virtue and of innocence)

Which pious minds to rapture raise,
And worthy deeds at once excite and praise,
To guilty hearts afford no kind relief;

But add inflaming rage, and more afflicting grief.
Monstrous Typhoeus thus new terrours fill,
He, who assail'd the skies,

And now beneath the burning hill
Of dreadful Etna lies.

Hearing the lyre's celestial sound,
He bellows in th' abyss profound;
Sicilia trembles at his roar,

Tremble the seas, and far Campania's shote;
While all his hundred mouths at once respire
Volumes of curling smoke, and floods of liquid
fire.

From Heaven alone all good proceeds;

To heavenly minds belong

All power and love, Godolphin, of good deeds,
And sense of sacred song!

And thus most pleasing are the Muse's lays

To them who merit most her praise! Wherefore, for thee her ivory lyre she strings,

And soars with rapture while she sings.

Whether affairs of most important weight
Require thy aiding hand,

And Anna's cause and Europe's fate
Thy serious thoughts demand;
Whether thy days and nights are spent
In cares, on public good intent;
Or whether leisure hours invite

To manly sports, or to refin'd delight;
In courts residing, or to plains retir'd,
Where generous steeds contest, with emulation
fir'd!

Thee still she seeks, and tuneful sings thy name,
As once she Theron sung,

While with the deathless worthy's fame
Olympian Pisa rung:

Nor less sublime is now her choice:
Nor less inspir'd by thee her voice.
And now she loves aloft to sound

The man for more than mortal deeds renown'd;
Varying anon her theme, she takes delight
The swift-heel'd horse to praise, and sing his rapid
flight.

And see! the air-born racers start,
Impatient of the rein;

Faster they run than flies the Scythian dart,

Nor, passing, print the plain!

The winds themselves, who with their swiftness
In vain their airy pinions ply;

So far in matchless speed thy coursers pass

Th' ethereal authors of their race.

[vie,

And now awhile the well-strain'd coursers
And now, my Muse, prepare [breathe;
Of olive-leaves a twisted wreath

To bind the victor's hair.
Pallas, in care of human-kind,
The fruitful olive first design'd;

Deep in the glebe her spear she lanc'd,
When all at once the laden boughs advanc'd:
The gods with wonder view'd the teeming Earth,
And all, with one consent, approv'd the beauteous
birth.

This done, earth-shaking Neptune next essay'd,
In bounty to the world,

To emulate the blue-ey'd maid;

And his huge trident hurl'd
Against the sounding beach; the stroke
Transfix'd the globe, and open broke

The central earth, whence, swift as light,
Forth rush'd the first-born horse. Stupendous

To thee, dear Dick, this tale I send,

Both as a critic and a friend.

I tell it with some variation

(Not altogether a translation)

From La Fontaine; an author, Dick,
Whose Muse would touch thee to the quick.
The subject is of that same kind,

To which thy heart seems most inclin'd:
How verse may alter it, God knows ;
Thou lov'st it well, I'm sure in prose.
So, without preface, or pretence,
To hold thee longer in suspense,
I shall proceed, as I am able,
To the recital of my fable.

A goblin of the merry kind,
More black of hue, than curst of mind,
To help a lover in distress,
Contriv'd a charm with such success,
That in short space the cruel dame
Relented, and return'd his flame.
The bargain, made betwixt them both,
Was bound by honour and by oath :
The lover laid down his salvation,
And Satan stak'd his reputation.
The latter promis'd on his part
(To serve his friend, and show his art)
That madam should by twelve o'clock,
Though hitherto as hard as rock,

Become as gentle as a glove,
And kiss and coo like any dove.
In short, the woman should be his,
That is, upon condition-viz.
That he, the lover, after tasting
What one would wish were everlasting,
Should, in return for such enjoyment,
Supply the fiend with fresh employment:
"That's all," quoth Pug;
my poor request
Is, only, never to have rest.
You thought, 'tis like, with reason too,
That I should have been serv'd, not you:
But what? upon my friend impose!
No-though a devil, none of those.
Your business then, pray understand me,
Is nothing more but to command me.
Of one thing only let me warn ye;
Which somewhat nearly may concern ye:
As soon as e'er one work is done,
Straight name a new one; and so on:
Let each to other quick succeed,
Or else you know how 'tis agreed-
For if, through any hums or haws,
There haps an intervening pause,
In which, for want of fresh commands,
Your slave obsequious idle stands,
Nor soul nor body ever more

Shall serve the nymph whom you adore ;
But both be laid at Satan's feet,
To be dispos'd as he thinks meet."
At once the lover all approves;
For who can hesitate that loves?
And thus he argues in his thought:
"Why, after all, I venture nought;
What mystery is in commanding?
Does that require much understanding?
Indeed, wer't my part to obey,
He'd go the better of the lay:
But he must do what I think fit-
Pshaw, pshaw, young Belzebub is bit."

Thus pleas'd in mind, he calls a chair,
Adjusts, and combs, and courts the fair:
The spell takes place, and all goes right,
And happy he employs the night
In sweet embraces, balmy kisses,
And riots in the bliss of blisses.

O joy," cried he, "that has no equal !”
But hold-no raptures-mark the sequel.
For now, when near the morning's dawn,
The youth began as 'twere to yawn;
His eyes a silky slumber seiz'd,

Or would have done, if Pug had pleas'd:
But that officious demon near,
Now buzz'd for business in his ear:
In haste, he names a thousand things;
The goblin plies his wicker wings,
And in a trice returns to ask
Another and another task.
Now palaces are built and towers,
The work of ages in few hours.
Then storms are in an instant rais'd,
Which the next moment are appeas'd.
Now showers of gold and gems are rain'd,
As if each India had been drain'd:
And he, in one astonish'd view,
Sees both Golconda and Peru.

These things, and stranger things than these,
Were done with equal speed and ease.
And now to Rome poor Pug he'll send ;
And Pug soon reach'd his journey's end,

And soon return'd with such a pack

Of bulls and pardons at his back,
That now, the squire (who had some hope
In holy water and the pope)

Was out of heart, and at a stand
What next to wish, and what command;
Invention flags, his brain grows muddy,
And black despair succeeds brown study.
In this distress the woeful youth
Acquaints the nymph with all the truth,
Begging her counsel, for whose sake
Both soul and body were at stake.
"And is this all?" replies the fair:
Let me alone to cure this care.
When next your demon shall appear,
Pray give him-look, what I hold here,
And bid him labour, soon or late,
To lay these ringlets lank and straight."
Then, something scarcely to be seen,
Her finger and her thumb between
She held, and sweetly smiling, cry'd,
"Your goblin's skill shall now be try'd."

She said; and gave-what shall I call
That thing so shining, crisp, and small,
Which round his finger strove to twine?
A tendril of the Cyprian vine?
Or sprig from Cytherea's grove;
Shade of the labyrinth of love.?
With awe, he now takes from her hand
That fleece-like flower of fairy land:
Less precious, whilom, was the fleece
Which drew the Argonauts from Greece;
Or that, which modern ages see
The spur and prize of chivalry,
Whose curls of kindred texture grace
Heroes and kings of Spanish race.

The spark prepar'd, and Pug at hand,
He issues, thus, his strict command:
This line, thus curve and thus orbicular,
Render direct, and perpendicular;
But so direct, that in no sort

It ever may in rings retort.

See me no more till this be done:
Hence, to thy task-avaunt, be gone."
Away the fiend like lightning flies,
And all his wit to work applies:
Anvils and presses he employs,

And dins whole Hell with hammering noise.
In vain he to no terms can bring
One twirl of that reluctant thing;
Th' elastic fibre mocks his pains,
And its first spiral form retains.
New stratagems the sprite contrives,
And down the depths of sea he dives:
"This sprunt, its pertness sure will lose,
When laid," said he, " to soak in ooze."
Poor foolish fiend! he little knew
Whence Venus and her garden grew.
Old Ocean, with paternal waves
The child of his own bed receives;
Which oft as dipt new force exerts,
And in more vigorous curls reverts.
So when to earth Alcides flung
The huge Antæus, whence he sprung,
From every fall fresh strength he gain'd,
And with new life the fight maintain'd.
The baffled goblin grows perplex'd,
Nor knows what slight to practise next a
The more he tries, the more he fails;
Nor charm, nor art, nor force avail

But all concur his shame to show, And more exasperate the foe.

And now he pensive turns and sad,
And looks like melan holic mad.
He rolls his eyes now off, now on
That wonderful phenomenon.

Sometimes he twists and twirls it round,
Then, pausing, meditates profound :
No end he sees of his surprise,
Nor what it should be can devise:

For never was yet wool or feather,
That could stand buff against all weather;
And unrelax'd, like this, resist

Both wind and rain, and snow and mist.
What stuff, or whence, or how 'twas made,
What spinster which could spin such thread,
He nothing knew; but, to his cost,
Knew all his fame and labour lost.
Subdued, abash'd, he gave it o'er;
'Tis said, he blush'd; 'tis sure, he swore
Not all the wiles that Hell could hatch
Could conquer that superb Mustach.
Defeated thus, thus discontent,
Back to the man the demon went :

"I grant," quoth he, our contract null,
And give you a discharge in full.
But tell me now, in name of wonder,
(Since I so candidly knock under)
What is this thing? Where could it grow?
Pray take it 'tis in statu quo.

Much good may't do you; for my part,
I wash my hands of 't from my heart."

"In truth, sir Goblin, or sir Fairy,"
Replies the lad, you're too soon weary.
What, leave this trifling task undone !
And think'st thou this the only one?
Alas! were this subdued, thou'dst find
Millions of more such still behind;
Which might employ, ev'n to eternity,
Both you and all your whole fraternity."

THE

PEASANT IN SEARCH OF HIS HEIFER.

A TALE AFTER M. DE LA FONTAINE.

so befell: a silly swain

Had sought his heifer long in vain ;
For wanton she had frisking stray'd,
And left the lawn, to seek the shade,
Around the plain he rolls his eyes,
Then to the wood in haste he hies;
Where, singling out the fairest tree,
He climbs, in hopes to hear or see.

Anon, there chanc'd that way to pass
A jolly lad and buxom lass:
The place was apt, the pastime pleasant;
Occasion with her forelock prosent;
The girl agog, the gallant ready;
So lightly down he lays my lady.
But so she turn'd, or so was laid,
That she some certain charms display'd,
Which with such wonder struck his sight
(With wonder, much; more, with delight)
That loud he cry'd in rapture, "What?
"What see I, gods! What see I not!"
But nothing nam'd; from whence 'tis guess'd,
'Twas more than well could be express'd.

The clown aloft, who lent an ear, Straight stops him short in mid career; And louder cry'd, "Ho! honest friend, That of thy seeing seest no end; Dost see the heifer that I seek?

If dost, pray be so kind to speak.”

HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS

SING, Muse, the force and all-informing fire
Of Cyprian Venus, goddess of desire :
Her charms th' immortal minds of gods can move,
And tame the stubborn race of men to love.
The wilder herds, and ravenous beasts of prey,
Her influence feel, and own her kindly sway.
Thro' pathless air, and boundless ocean's space,
She rules the feather'd kind and finny race;
Whole nature on her sole support depends,
And far as life exists, her care extends.

Of all the numerous host of gods above,
But three are found inflexible to love.
Blue-ey'd Minerva,free preserves her heart,
A virgin unbeguil'd by Cupid's art;
In shining arms the martial maid delights,
O'er war presides, and well-disputed fights;
With thirst of fame she first the hero fir'd,
And first the skill of useful arts inspir'd;
Taught artists first the carving tool to wield,
Chariots with brass to arm, and form the fenceful.
shield:

She first taught modest maids in early bloom,
To shun the lazy life, and spin, or ply the loom.
Diana next the Paphian queen defies,

Her smiling arts and proffer'd friendship flies:
She loves, with well-mouth'd hounds and cheerful
horn,

Or silver sounding voice, to wake the Morn,
To wound the mountain boar, or rouse the wood-
land deer;

To draw the bow, or dart the pointed spear.
Sometimes, of gloomy groves she likes the shades,
And there of virgin-nymphs the chorus leads;
And sometimes seeks the town, and leaves the
And loves society where virtue reigns. [plains,

The third celestial power averse to love
Is virgin Vesta, dear to mighty Jove;
Whom Neptune sought to wed, and Phœbus woo'd;
And both with fruitless labour long pursu❜d.
For she, severely chaste, rejected both,
And bound her purpose with a solemn oath,
A virgin life inviolate to lead;

She swore, and Jove assenting, bow'd his head.
But since her rigid choice the joys deny'd
Of nuptial rites, and blessings of a bride,
The bounteous Jove with gifts that want supply'
High on a throne she sits amidst the skies,
And first is fed with fumes of sacrifice;
For holy rites to Vesta first are paid,
And on her altar first-fruit offerings laid;
So Jove ordain'd in honour of the maid.

These are the powers above, and only these,
Whom Love and Cytherea's art displease;
Of other beings, none in Earth or skies
Her force resists, or influence denies.
With ease her charms the thunderer can bind,
And captivate with love th' almighty mind:
Ev'n he, whose dread commands the gods obey,
Submits to her, and owns superior sway.

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including ..., כרך 10