OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. AN ODE.
From Mr. Pope's Essay on Criticism, 1. 376.
HEAR how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprize, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love: Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow. Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound. The pow'r of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.
BEHOLD, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-resounding
Two coursers of ethereal race,
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-ey'd Fancy hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her pictur'd urn,
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
ah! 'tis heard no more
VERSES IN PRAISE OF MR. DRYDEN,
Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now ? though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant-eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun : Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far-But far above the great
TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,
Your theme is vast, your verse divinely good; Where, tho' the Nine their beauteous strokes repeat, And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat, It looks as if they strook 'em at a hear, So all serenely great, so just refin'd, Like angels' love to human seed inclin'd, It starts a giant, and exalts the kind. 'Tis spirit seen, whose fiery atoms rowl, So brightly fierce, each syllable's a soul. 'Tis miniature of man, but he's all heart;
'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art; To whom e'en the Fanatics altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arose,
Fil'd off the rust, and the right party chose. Nor, Sir, be shock'd at what the gloomy say; Turn not your feet too inward nor too splay. 'Tis gracious all, and great: push on your theme; Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem. David, that rebel Israel's envy mov'd; David, by God and all good men belov'd.
The beauties of your Absalom excel,
But more the charms of charming Annabel:
Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright, 25 Cheerful as summer's noon, and chaste as winter's Of Annabel, the Muses' dearest theme;
Of Annabel, the angel of my dream. Thus let a broken eloquence attend,
And to your masterpiece these shadows send. 30
ABSALOM AND ACHITHOPHEL.
I Thought, forgive my sin, the boasted fire Of poets' souls did long ago expire; Of folly or of madness did accuse
The wretch that thought himself possest with muse;
Laugh'd at the God within that did inspire
With more than human thoughts the tuneful quire.
But sure 'tis more than fancy, or the dream Of rhymers slumb'ring by the Muses' stream.
Some livelier spark of Heav'n, and more refin'd
From earthly dross, fills the great Poet's mind. Io Witness these mighty and immortal lines,
Through each of which th' informing genius shines. Scarce a diviner flame inspir'd the king, Of whom thy muse does so sublimely sing: Not David's self could in a nobler verse, His gloriously offending son rehearse; Tho' in his breast the prophet's fury met, The father's fondness, and the poet's wit.
Here all consent in wonder and in praise, And to the unknown Poet altars raise ; Which thou must needs accept with equal joy, As when Æneas heard the wars of Troy, (Wrapt up himself in darkness and unseen) Extoll'd with wonder by the Tyrian Queen. Sure thou already art secure of fame,
Nor want'st new glories to exalt thy name: What father else would have refus'd to own So great a son as godlike Absalom ?
TO THE CONCEALED AUTHOR OF
ABSALOM AND ACHITHOPHEL.
HAIL heav'n-born Muse! hail ev'ry sacred page! The glory of our isle and of our age:
Th' inspiring sun to Albion draws more nigh, The North at length teems with a work to vie With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty.
While Pindus' lofty heights our Poet sought, (His ravish'd mind with vast ideas fraught) Our language fail'd beneath his rising thought. This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines He drains of all their gold t' adorn his lines, ΤΟ Through each of which the Mantuan Genius shines, The rock obey'd the pow'rful Hebrew guide, Her flinty breast dissolv'd into a tide:
Thus on our stubborn language he prevails,
And makes the Helicon in which he sails;
The dialect, as well as sense, invents,
And with his poem, a new speech presents.
Hail, then, thou matchless Bard, thou great Unknown, That give your country fame, yet shun your own! In vain; for ev'rywhere your praise you find, And, not to meet it, you must shun mankind. Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws, And e'en the factious give your verse applause, Whose lightning strikes to ground their idol cause: The cause, for whose dear sake they drank a flood Of civil gore, nor spar'd the Royal blood; The cause, whose growth to crush, our prelates wrote In vain, almost in vain our heroes fought;
Yet by one stab of your keen satire dies;
before your sacred lines their shatter'd Dagon lies. Oh! if unworthy we appear to know The sire to whom this lovely birth we owe ;
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