POEM S. ODE TO THE HONOURABLE SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. Written at Moar-Park, June 1689. ViaTur, the greatest of all monarchies ! Till, its firit emperor rebellious man It fell, and broke with its own weight By many a petty lord poffefs'd, But ne'er fince feated in one ingle breast! With rules to fearch it, yet obtain'd by none. We have too long been led aftray; Too long have our mifguided fouls been taught With rules from mufty morals brought, 'Tis you must put us in the way; Let us (for fhame!) no more be fed With antique relics of the dead, The gleanings of philofophy, Philofophy the lumber of the schools, The roguery of alchemy; And we, the bubbled fools, Spend all our prefent life in hopes of golden rules. Remembrance is our treasure and our food; Think that he there does all her treafures hide, And that her troubled ghoù still haunts there fince the dy'd. Confine her walks to colleges and schools; Her priests, her train, and followers show They purchafe knowledge at th' expence VOL. IX. And, fick with dregs of knowledge grown, Still caft it up, and naufeate company. Curft be the wreteh! nay, doubly curft! To curfe our greatest enemy) (Which fince has feiz'd on all the rest) You cannot be compar'd to one : I muft, like him that painted Venus' face, Their courting a retreat like you, Your happy frame at once controls You bought it at a cheaper rate; To fhow it coft its price in war; War! that mad game the world fo loves to play And for it does fo dearly pay; For, though with lofs or victory a while Fortune the gamefters does beguile, No thunder e'er can blaft: Shoots to the carth, and dies; Nor ever green and flourishing 't will laft, Nor dipt in blood, nor widow's tears, nor orphan's cries. About the head crown'd with these bays, Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace, Makes up its folemn train with death; It melts the fword of war, yet keeps it in the fheath. The wily fhifts of state, thofe juggler's tricks, Because the cords efcape their eye, A Methinks, when you expofe the scene, How plain I fee through the deceit ! On what poor engines move The thoughts of monarchs, and defignis of states! Away the frighten'd peasants fly, Lo! it appears! See how they tremble! how they quake! Out ftarts the little beaft, and mocks their idle fears. Then tell, dear favourite mufe! What ferpent's that which still reforts, Still lurks in palaces and courts? Take thy unwonted flight, And on the terrace light. See where fhe lies! See how the rears her head, And rolls about her dreadful eyes, Made up of virtue and transparent innocence; He ne'er could overcome her quite (In pieces cut, the viper still did re-unite), Till, at laft, tir'd with lofs of time and eafe, Refolv'd to give himself, as well as country, peace. Sing belov'd mufe! the pleafures of retreat, And in fome untouched virgin ftrain Go publish o'er the plain How is the mufe luxuriant grown! To the lov'd pafture where he us'd to feed, Wake from thy wanton dreams, Come from thy dear-lov'd ftrcams, And foftly fteals in many windings down, As loath to fee the hated court and town, And murmurs as the glides away. In this new happy fcene Are nobler fubjects for your learned pen ; Whatever moves our wonder, or our Ipott, Shall ere long grow into a tree; How fome go downward to the root, Some more ambitiously upwards fly, And form the leaves, the branches and the fruit. You ftrove to cultivate a barren court in vain, Your garden's better worth your noble pain, Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again. Shall I believe a spirit fo divine Was caft in the fame mould with mine?. Why then does nature fo unjustly share Among her elder fons the whole eftate, And all her jewels and her plate? Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw, And, when I almost reach the shore, Straight the mufe turns the helm, and I launc out again: And yet, to feed my pride, Whene'er I mourn, ftops my complaining breat With promife of a mad reverfion after death. Then, Sir, accept this worthlefs verse, And, fince too oft' debauch'd by praise, In vain all wholesome herbs I fow, Seeds and runs up to poetry. ODE TO KING WILLIAM, On bis Success in Ireland. To purchase kingdoms, and to buy renown, Are arts peculiar to diffembling France; You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown, And folid virtue docs your name advance. Your matchlefs courage with your prudence jo The glorious ftructure of your fame to raife With its own light your dazzling glory fhines, And into adoration turns our praife. Had you by dull fucceffion gain'd your crown (Cowards are monarchs by that title made) Part of your merit chance would call her own And half your virtues had been loft in fhad i But now your worth its juft reward fhall have: At once deserve a crown, and gain it too! Which we could neither obviate nor fhun. To preferve conquefts, as at first to gain : When Schomberg started at the vast design: The brave attempt does all our foes disarm; You need but now give orders and command, Your mame fhall the remaining work perform, And spare the labour of your conquering hand. France does in vain her feeble arts apply, To interrupt the fortune of your course : Bolly we hence the brave commencement date ODE TO THE ATHENIAN SOCIETY. Meor-Park, Feb. 14. 1691. As when the deluge first began to fall Ard nigh to heaven as is its name: So after th' inundation of a war, When learning's little household did embark When the bright fun of peace began to fhine, The first of plants after the thunder, ftorm, and rain); Flew dutifully back again, And made an humble chaplet for the king *. (Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd at the war); A peaceful and a flourishing fhore: On the delightful strand, Had rather water'd it than drown': And the transported mufe imagin'd it An unknown mufic all around Charming her greedy ears With many a heavenly fong Of nature and of art, of deep philofophy and love, In vain he catches at the empty found, Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men, (Yet curiofity, they fay, Is in her fex a crime needs no excufe) Has forc'd to grope her uncouth way Both the good natur'd and the ill, Whher world's fruitful fyftem in her facred ark, Begets a kinder folly and impertinence At the frit ebb of noife and fears, Pphy's exalted head appears; Of admiration and of praife. And our good brethren of the furly feet Muft e'en all herd us with their kindred fools: For though, poffefs'd of prefent vogue, they've Railing a rule of wit, and obloquy a trade; [made Yet the fame want of brains produces each effect. And you, whom Pluto's helm does wifely fhroud From us the blil and thoughtless crowd, Like the fam'd hero in his mother's cloud, * The ode I writ to the King in Ireland. Who both our follies and impertinences fee, Our fhallow fearch and judgment to direct. Our wit and learning narrow as our trade; We fondly ftay at home, in fear Forcing a wretched trade by beating down the fale, The wits, I mean the atheists of the age, Who fain would ru'e the pulpit as they do the Wondrous refiners of philofophy, [ftage; Of morals and divinity, By the new modish system of reducing all to sense, This hopeful fect, now it begins to fee Their firft and chiefeft force To cenfure, to cry down, and rail, And, by their never-failing ways all. I laugh at the grave answer they will make, Perhaps imagine to be wondrous wit, Which from eternal feeds begun, Justling fome thousand years till ripen'd by the fun; But as for poor contented me, Who muft my weakness and my ignorance confefs, That I believe in much I ne'er can hope to fee; Methinks I'm fatisfy'd to guefs That this new, noble, and delightful scene Is wonderfully mov'd by fome exalted men, Who have well ftudied in the world's disease (That epidemic error and depravity, Or in our judgment or cur eye), That what furprifes us can only pleafe. We often fearch contentedly the whole world round, To make fome great difcovery; And fcorn it when 'tis found. Jun fo the mighty Nile has fuffer'd in its fame, Becaufe 'tis faid (and perhaps only faid) We've found a little inconfiderable head, That feeds the huge unequa! ftream. Confider human folly, and you'll quickly own, That all the praifes it can give, By which fome fondly boaft they fhali for ever live, Won't pay th' impertinence of being known: Elfe why fhould the fam'd Lydian king (Whom all the charms of an ufurped wife and state With all that power unfelt courts mankind to be great, Did with new unexperienc'd glories wait) I would not draw th' idea from an empty name; Although they praife the learning and the wit Men's folly, whimfies and inconftancy, And by a faint defcription makes them lefs. Then tell us what is fame, where fhall we feare Look where exalted virtue and religion fit [forit Enthron'd with heavenly wit! Look where you fee The greateft fcorn of learned vanity! And then how much a nothing is mankind! Whofe reafon is weigh'd down by popular air, Who, by that, vainly talks of baffling death; And hopes to lengthen life by a transfufion breath, Which yet whoe'er examines right will find To be an art as vain as bottling up of wind! And when you find out thefe, believe true fam is there, Far above all reward, yet to which all is due; And this, ye great unknown? is only known i you. The juggling fea-god, when by chance trepan' Vext at their follies, murmur'd in his stream; Ne'er borrow'd more variety of fhapes So well you anfwer all phænomena there: Though madmen and the wits, philofophers an fools, With all that factious or enthufiaftic dotards drean And all the incoherent jargon of the schools; Though all the fumes of fear, hope, love, an fhame, [doub Contrive to fhock your minds with many a fenfele Doubts where the Delphic god would grope in is norance and night, The god of learning and of light Would want a god himself to help him out. Philofophy, as it before us lies, Seems to have borrow'd fome ungrateful tafte Of doubts, impertinence, and niceties, From every age through which it pafs'd, But always with a stronger relish of the laft. This beauteous queen, by Heaven defign'd To be the great original For man to dress and polifh his uncourtly mind, In what mock habits have they put her fince the fall! [fages, More oft' in fools' and madmen's hands than Ta huge fardingale to fwell her fustian stuff, Of comments and disputes, ridiculous and vain, How foon have you reftor'd her charms, And rid her of her lumber and her books, Dreit her again genteel and neat, And rather tight than great! How fond we are to court her to our arms! Thus the deluding Mufe oft' blinds me to her ways, And changes all to beauty, and the praise And you with fatal and immortal wit confpire Cruel unknown! what is it you intend? Ah! could you, could you hope a poet for your friend! Rather forgive what my first tranfport faid: May all the blood, which fhall by woman's fcorn be shed, Lie upon you and on your childrens head! For you fah! did I think I e'er fhould live to fee The fatal time when that could be!) Have ev'n increas'd their pride and cruelty. Woman feems now above all vanity grown, Still boafting of her great unknown Piatonic champions, gain'd without one female Or the vaft charges of a smile; [wile, Which 'tis a fhame to fee how much of late You've taught the covetous wretches to o'er rate, And which they've now the confciences to weigh In the fame balance with our tears, And with fuch fcanty wages pay The bondage and the flavery of years. Let the vain fex dream on; the empire comes from And, had they common generofity, [us, They would not ufe us thus. Well-though you've rais'd her to this high Ocrielves are rais'd as well as fhe; [degree, And, fpite of all that they or you can do, Tis pride and happiness enough to me to be of the fame exalted fex with you. Alas, how fleeting and how vain In the nobler man, our learning and our wit! I figh whenc'er I think of it: As at the clofing of an unhappy fcene Of fome great king and conqueror's death, When the fad melancholy mufe Stays but to catch his utmost breath. I grieve, this nobler work moft happily hegun, So quickly and fo wonderfully carry'd on, May fall at last to intereft, folly, and abuse. There is a noon-tide in our lives, Which ftill the fooner it arrives, Although we boast our winter-fun looks bright, And foolishly are glad to fee it at its height," Yet fo much foouer comes the long and gloomy night. No conqueft ever yet begun, And by one mighty hero carried to its height, The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead. PERUSE my leaves through every part, There, in her own, "For an el breth ;" Madam, I die without your grace"Who that had wit would place it here, "Item, for half a yard of lace." For every peeping fop to jeer; In power of fpittle and a clout, Whene'er he please, to blot it out; And then, to heighten the difgrace, Clap his own nonfenfe in the place? Whoe'er expects to hold his part In fuch a book, and fuch a heart, If he be wealthy, and a fool, Is in all points the fittest tool; Of whom it may be justly faid, He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. A |