Works

Now will I write out a miserable Performance of my own — for this Book is to hold all sorts of Stuff — it is an Ode written when I was between sixteen and seventeen Years old, in which I fancied — God help me — I had imitated the eminent English Poets as well as Addison himself. As I read it over this Moment I resolved once to burn it, but recollecting that my poor Father had in his foolish Fondness given Copies to a Friend or two, I thought it might as well have a place here — I see ’tis too bad to mend — so here it is — "with all its Imperfections on its Head!.¹

1.

High on a chalky Cliff whose height
    O’erlooks a fertile Plain;
From whose broad Top the aching Sight
Sees stretch’d in vast Expanse the Azure Main
    Britannias’ Genius sate:
And while on England’s happy Land
    She turn’d her eager Eyes:
How thick She cried our Valleys stand!
What pleasing Prospects rise!
The Wood-crown’d Hill, the widely-spreading plain,
The Pastures rich in closer Bounds confin’d;
The sweet Cærulean Pea, the golden Grain
That Willing waves in warm September’s Wind;
The verdant Slopes which scattring Flocks adorn,
And sparkle to the Sun each dewy Morn,
    At Home their Ease, abroad their Fame
    My children thro’ the World proclame
        The favour’d Sons of Fate.

2.

Why then must still the Name of Great be mix’d
    With Murder Sound profane!
And why must Glory’s glitt’ring Fane be fix’d
On the fresh Bleeding Bodies of the Slain?
    Oh rather let Renown
    Here ascend her Throne;
    On Liberty founded,
    By Plenty surrounded,
With Simplicity wise and with Innocence great;
And whilst Torrid Climates their Harvests deny,
And parch with the heat of a rigourous Sky,
    While the moss-grown Sickle stands
    Rusted to the Reapers hands;
While clad in Arms each mighty Lord
Wields the wide-destroying Sword,
While Fame to Regions far remote
Conveys each dismal dying Note;
Filling with Sounds of Sad Despair
The Rocks and Caves and Desart Air
    Be this the Muses Seat!

3.

Nor longueurr envy Rome her Tyber’s Coast!
    Nor Greece her soft Castilian Stream!
Our Rocky Avon’s Shores shall boast
    As great a Bard, as bright a Theme.
    For sprightly Wit, for solid Sense,
    For Liberty and Eloquence
    In Ages past our happy Land
    Stood as a Record of Renown ;
    Ages to come she still shall stand
    Till weight of Empire pulls her down:
    Nor has her Fame, nor Genius known Decay
From hobbling Chaucer-—down to tuneful Gray.

4.

First Spenser came; a comely courteous Knight
Who first to sooth our rude rough Tongue did try;
His Numbers still do please each British Wight
Who beareth due Respect to Chivalry:
So the soft Maid doth still in Secret sigh
For him who first did cause her Love-sick Smart;
Which never shall remove until She die,
His Image is imprinted in her Heart,
Ne can a Second Love oblige it to depart.

5.

But see the Lightnings flash, the Thunders roll,
’Tis Shakespear rushes on my Soul,
    He waves his wondrous Wand!
At every Touch some new-made Forms obey,
And ghastly Spectres homage pay
    To his creative hand.

Or when our softer Passions he would move
With Juliet’s Charms or Romeo’s Love
    How melting sweet the Lyre!
But when bold Henry’s battles swell the page
Who can describe his noble Rage
    Without a Muse of Fire ?

Again! by Shakespeare’s magick Pow’rs
These glittring Thrones, these cloud-capt Tow’rs
    Shall flit like empty Wind!
Shall burst like Bubbles in a Stream
And like the Conquror’s aery Dream
    Leave not a Wreck behind.

6.

Hence vain ambitious Folly!
    And you who tell each Tale in fetter’d Rhime,
    While Milton more sublime
Can fill the fixed Mind with Joys more holy:
    Hail heav’n-instructed Bard!
How Echo rings yon’ ragged Rocks among!
    Responsive to thy Song!
Surpass’d alone by that which Man ne’er hears,
    The Musick of the Spheres;
Which doth at length thy matchless Strains reward.

7.

But hark! harmonious Dryden strikes the Shell,
    Each Passion he can raise or quen;
    Our Eyes in flood with Laughter stand
    To see him play the fool so well,
    Or correspondent to Command
With real Grief; and heart-felt Sorrow swell;
For who but he such tender Tales could tell?
    In words that melted as they fell ?
What Passion cannot Dryden raise or quell?

8.

To scourge the wicked, and the wise to mend,
Raise falling Virtue, and her Cause defend,
See Pope appear; who could alone explore
Worlds then unknown, and Paths untrod before:
    Mark the nice Spot where Vice and Virtue join’d,
    And fix the ruling Passion of the Mind ;
    Then stoop to celebrate Belinda’s Name,
And consecrate his own-eternally to Fame.

    Nor has the Muse forgot to sing
    Nor has She yet forsook her fav’rite Isle;
    Some modern Bards there are, can strike the String
    And force from Phoebus an approving Smile
            Why then ingrate
            Complain of Fate
        As wanting in poetick Fire ?
    While easy Marriott tunes the vocal Lyre,
    While Gray—that great Original we own,
And gentle Mason sits sublime on Nature’s peaceful Throne

Footnotes

1. cf. Hamlet, I. v. 79..↩︎