The Poetical Works of Mark Akenside Part 14

9 O lost alike to action and repose!

With all that habit of familiar fame, Sold to the mockery of relentless foes, And doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame, To act with burning brow and throbbing heart A poor deserter's dull exploded part, To slight the favour thou canst hope no more, Renounce the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind, Charge thy own lightness on thy country's mind, And from her voice appeal to each tame foreign sh.o.r.e.

10 But England's sons, to purchase thence applause, Shall ne'er the loyalty of slaves pretend, By courtly pa.s.sions try the public cause; Nor to the forms of rule betray the end.

O race erect! by manliest pa.s.sions moved, The labours which to Virtue stand approved, Prompt with a lover's fondness to survey; Yet, where Injustice works her wilful claim, Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame, Impatient to confront, and dreadful to repay.

11 These thy heart owns no longer. In their room See the grave queen of pageants, Honour, dwell Couch'd in thy bosom's deep tempestuous gloom, Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell.

Before her rites thy sickening reason flew, Divine Persuasion from thy tongue withdrew, While Laughter mock'd, or Pity stole a sigh: Can Wit her tender movements rightly frame Where the prime function of the soul is lame?

Can Fancy's feeble springs the force of Truth supply?

12 But come: 'tis time: strong Destiny impends To shut thee from the joys thou hast betray'd: With princes fill'd, the solemn fane ascends, By Infamy, the mindful demon sway'd.

There vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced, From nations fetter'd, and from towns laid waste, For ever through the s.p.a.cious courts resound: There long posterity's united groan, And the sad charge of horrors not their own, a.s.sail the giant chiefs, and press them to the ground.

13 In sight, old Time, imperious judge, awaits: Above revenge, or fear, or pity, just, He urgeth onward to those guilty gates The great, the sage, the happy, and august.

And still he asks them of the hidden plan Whence every treaty, every war began, Evolves their secrets and their guilt proclaims: And still his hands despoil them on the road Of each vain wreath by lying bards bestow'd, And crush their trophies huge, and raze their sculptured names.

14 Ye mighty shades, arise, give place, attend: Here his eternal mansion Curio seeks.

Low doth proud Wentworth to the stranger bend, And his dire welcome hardy Clifford speaks:-- 'He comes, whom fate with surer arts prepared To accomplish all which we but vainly dared; Whom o'er the stubborn herd she taught to reign: Who soothed with gaudy dreams their raging power Even to its last irrevocable hour; Then baffled their rude strength, and broke them to the chain.'

15 But ye, whom yet wise Liberty inspires, Whom for her champions o'er the world she claims (That household G.o.dhead whom of old your sires Sought in the woods of Elbe and bore to Thames), Drive ye this hostile omen far away; Their own fell efforts on her foes repay; Your wealth, your arts, your fame, be hers alone: Still gird your swords to combat on her side; Still frame your laws her generous test to abide; And win to her defence the altar and the throne.

16 Protect her from yourselves, ere yet the flood Of golden Luxury, which Commerce pours, Hath spread that selfish fierceness through your blood, Which not her lightest discipline endures: s.n.a.t.c.h from fantastic demagogues her cause: Dream not of Numa's manners, Plato's laws: A wiser founder, and a n.o.bler plan, O sons of Alfred, were for you a.s.sign'd: Bring to that birthright but an equal mind, And no sublimer lot will fate reserve for man.

[Footnote 1: 'To Curio:' see _Life_.]

ODE X.

TO THE MUSE.

1 Queen of my songs, harmonious maid, Ah! why hast thou withdrawn thy aid?

Ah! why forsaken thus my breast With inauspicious damps oppress'd?

Where is the dread prophetic heat With which my bosom wont to beat?

Where all the bright mysterious dreams Of haunted groves and tuneful streams, That woo'd my genius to divinest themes?

2 Say, G.o.ddess, can the festal board, Or young Olympia's form adored; Say, can the pomp of promised fame Relume thy faint, thy dying flame?

Or have melodious airs the power To give one free, poetic hour?

Or, from amid the Elysian train, The soul of Milton shall I gain, To win thee back with some celestial strain?

3 O powerful strain! O sacred soul!

His numbers every sense control: And now again my bosom burns; The Muse, the Muse herself returns.

Such on the banks of Tyne, confess'd, I hail'd the fair immortal guest, When first she seal'd me for her own, Made all her blissful treasures known, And bade me swear to follow Her alone.

ODE XI.

ON LOVE. TO A FRIEND.

1 No, foolish youth--to virtuous fame If now thy early hopes be vow'd, If true ambition's n.o.bler flame Command thy footsteps from the crowd, Lean not to Love's enchanting snare; His songs, his words, his looks beware, Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

2 By thought, by dangers, and by toils, The wreath of just renown is worn; Nor will ambition's awful spoils The flowery pomp of ease adorn; But Love unbends the force of thought; By Love unmanly fears are taught; And Love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.

3 Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays, And heard from many a zealous breast, The pleasing tale of beauty's praise In wisdom's lofty language dress'd; Of beauty powerful to impart Each finer sense, each comelier art, And soothe and polish man's ungentle heart.

4 If then, from Love's deceit secure, Thus far alone thy wishes tend, Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour On Delia's vernal walk descend: Go, while the golden light serene, The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene Becomes the presence of the rural queen.

5 Attend, while that harmonious tongue Each bosom, each desire commands: Apollo's lute by Hermes strung, And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands, Attend. I feel a force divine, O Delia, win my thoughts to thine; That half the colour of thy life is mine.

6 Yet conscious of the dangerous charm, Soon would I turn my steps away; Nor oft provoke the lovely harm, Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.

But thou, my friend--I hear thy sighs: Alas, I read thy downcast eyes; And thy tongue falters, and thy colour flies.

7 So soon again to meet the fair?

So pensive all this absent hour?-- O yet, unlucky youth, beware, While yet to think is in thy power.

In vain with friends.h.i.+p's flattering name Thy pa.s.sion veils its inward shame; Friends.h.i.+p, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!

8 Once, I remember, new to Love, And dreading his tyrannic chain, I sought a gentle maid to prove What peaceful joys in friends.h.i.+p reign: Whence we forsooth might safely stand, And pitying view the love-sick band, And mock the winged boy's malicious hand.

9 Thus frequent pa.s.s'd the cloudless day, To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd; While I exulted to survey One generous woman's real mind: Till friends.h.i.+p soon my languid breast Each night with unknown cares possess'd, Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.

10 Fool that I was--And now, even now While thus I preach the Stoic strain, Unless I shun Olympia's view, An hour unsays it all again.

O friend!--when Love directs her eyes To pierce where every pa.s.sion lies, Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?

ODE XII.

TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BARONET.

1 Behold, the Balance in the sky Swift on the wintry scale inclines: To earthy caves the Dryads fly, And the bare pastures Pan resigns.

Late did the farmer's fork o'erspread With recent soil the twice-mown mead, Tainting the bloom which Autumn knows: He whets the rusty coulter now, He binds his oxen to the plough, And wide his future harvest throws.

2 Now, London's busy confines round, By Kensington's imperial towers, From Highgate's rough descent profound, Ess.e.xian heaths, or Kentish bowers, Where'er I pa.s.s, I see approach Some rural statesman's eager coach, Hurried by senatorial cares: While rural nymphs (alike, within, Aspiring courtly praise to win) Debate their dress, reform their airs.

3 Say, what can now the country boast, O Drake, thy footsteps to detain, When peevish winds and gloomy frost The suns.h.i.+ne of the temper stain?

Say, are the priests of Devon grown Friends to this tolerating throne, Champions for George's legal right?

Have general freedom, equal law, Won to the glory of Na.s.sau Each bold Wess.e.xian squire and knight?

4 I doubt it much; and guess at least That when the day, which made us free, Shall next return, that sacred feast Thou better may'st observe with me.

With me the sulphurous treason old A far inferior part shall hold In that glad day's triumphal strain; And generous William be revered, Nor one untimely accent heard Of James, or his ign.o.ble reign.

5 Then, while the Gascon's fragrant wine With modest cups our joy supplies, We'll truly thank the power divine Who bade the chief, the patriot rise; Rise from heroic ease (the spoil Due, for his youth's Herculean toil, From Belgium to her saviour son), Rise with the same unconquer'd zeal For our Britannia's injured weal, Her laws defaced, her shrines o'erthrown.

6 He came. The tyrant from our sh.o.r.e, Like a forbidden demon, fled; And to eternal exile bore Pontific rage and va.s.sal dread.