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Winter – The Fourth Pastoral, or Daphne poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Lycidas.

Thyrsis, the music of that murm’ring spring,

Is not so mournful as the strains you sing.

Nor rivers winding thro’ the vales below,

So sweetly warble, or so smoothly flow.

Now sleeping flocks on their soft fleeces lie,

The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,

Wile silent birds forget their tuneful lays,

Oh sing of Daphne’s fate, and Daphne’s praise!

Thyrsis.

Behold the groves that shine with silver frost,

Their beauty wither’d, and their verdure lost.

Here shall I try the sweet Alexis’ strain,

That call’d the list’ning Dryads to the plain?

Thames heard the numbers as he flow’d along,

And bade his willows learn the moving song.

Lycidas.

So may kind rains their vital moisture yield,

And swell the future harvest of the field.

Begin; this charge the dying Daphne gave,

And said; “Ye shepherds, sing around my grave!

Sing, while beside the shaded tomb I mourn,

And with fresh bays her rural shrine adorn.”

Thyrsis.

Ye gentle Muses, leave your crystal spring,

Let Nymphs and Sylvans cypress garlands bring;

Ye weeping Loves, the stream with myrtles hide,

And break your vows, as when Adonis died;

And with your golden darts, now useless grown,

Inscribe a verse on this relenting stone:

“Let nature change, let heav’n and earth deplore,

Fair Daphne’s dead, and love is now no more!”

‘Tis done, and nature’s various charms decay,

See gloomy clouds obscure the cheerful day!

Now hung with pearls the dropping trees appear,

Their faded honours scatter’d on her bier.

See, where on earth the flow’ry glories lie,

With her they flourish’d, and with her they die.

Ah what avail the beauties nature wore?

Fair Daphne’s dead, and beauty is no more!

For her the flocks refuse their verdant food,

Nor thirsty heifers seek the gliding flood.

The silver swans her hapless fate bemoan,

In notes more sad than when they sing their own;

In hollow caves sweet Echo silent lies,

Silent, or only to her name replies;

Her name with pleasure once she taught the shore,

Now Daphne’s dead, and pleasure is no more!

No grateful dews descend from ev’ning skies,

Nor morning odours from the flow’rs arise;

No rich perfumes refresh the fruitful field,

Nor fragrant herbs their native incense yield.

The balmy Zephyrs, silent since her death,

Lament the ceasing of a sweeter breath;

Th’ industrious bees neglect their golden store;

Fair Daphne’s dead, and sweetness is no more!

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,

Shall list’ning in mid air suspend their wings;

No more the birds shall imitate her lays,

Or hush’d with wonder, hearken from the sprays;

No more the streams their murmur shall forbear,

A sweeter music than their own to hear,

But tell the reeds, and tell the vocal shore,

Fair Daphne’s dead, and music is no more!

Her fate is whisper’d by the gentle breeze,

And told in sighs to all the trembling trees;

The trembling trees, in ev’ry plain and wood,

Her fate remurmur to the silver flood;

The silver flood, so lately calm, appears

Swell’d with new passion, and o’erflows with tears;

The winds and trees and floods her death deplore,

Daphne, our grief! our glory now no more!

But see! where Daphne wond’ring mounts on high

Above the clouds, above the starry sky!

Eternal beauties grace the shining scene,

Fields ever fresh, and groves for ever green!

There while you rest in Amaranthine bow’rs,

Or from those meads select unfading flow’rs,

Behold us kindly, who your name implore,

Daphne, our Goddess, and our grief no more!

Lycidas.

How all things listen, while thy Muse complains!

Such silence waits on Philomela’s strains,

In some still ev’ning, when the whisp’ring breeze

Pants on the leaves, and dies upon the trees.

To thee, bright goddess, oft a lamb shall bleed,

If teeming ewes increase my fleecy breed.

While plants their shade, or flow’rs their odours give,

Thy name, thy honour, and thy praise shall live!

Thyrsis.

But see, Orion sheds unwholesome dews,

Arise, the pines a noxious shade diffuse;

Sharp Boreas blows, and Nature feels decay,

Time conquers all, and we must Time obey.

Adieu, ye vales, ye mountains, streams and groves,

Adieu, ye shepherd’s rural lays and loves;

Adieu, my flocks, farewell ye sylvan crew,

Daphne, farewell, and all the world adieu!

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Vertumnus and Pomona : Ovid’s Metamorphoses, book 14 [v. 623-771] poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


The fair Pomona flourish’d in his reign;

Of all the Virgins of the sylvan train,

None taught the trees a nobler race to bear,

Or more improv’d the vegetable care.

To her the shady grove, the flow’ry field,

The streams and fountains, no delights could yield;

‘Twas all her joy the ripening fruits to tend,

And see the boughs with happy burthens bend.

The hook she bore instead of Cynthia’s spear,

To lop the growth of the luxuriant year,

To decent form the lawless shoots to bring,

And teach th’ obedient branches where to spring.

Now the cleft rind inserted graffs receives,

And yields an offspring more than nature gives;

Now sliding streams the thirsty plants renew,

And feed their fibres with reviving dew.

These cares alone her virgin breast employ,

Averse from Venus and the nuptial joy.

Her private orchards, wall’d on ev’ry side,

To lawless sylvans all access deny’d.

How oft the Satyrs and the wanton Fawns,

Who haunt the forests, or frequent the lawns,

The God whose ensign scares the birds of prey,

And old Silenus, youthful in decay,

Employ’d their wiles, and unavailing care,

To pass the fences, and surprise the fair.

Like these, Vertumnus own’d his faithful flame,

Like these, rejected by the scornful dame.

To gain her sight a thousand forms he wears,

And first a reaper from the field appears,

Sweating he walks, while loads of golden grain

O’ercharge the shoulders of the seeming swain.

Oft o’er his back a crooked scythe is laid,

And wreathes of hay his sun-burnt temples shade:

Oft in his harden’d hand a goad he bears,

Like one who late unyok’d the sweating steers.

Sometimes his pruning-hook corrects the vines,

And the loose stragglers to their ranks confines.

Now gath’ring what the bounteous year allows,

He pulls ripe apples from the bending boughs.

A soldier now, he with his sword appears;

A fisher next, his trembling angle bears;

Each shape he varies, and each art he tries,

On her bright charms to feast his longing eyes.

A female form at last Vertumnus wears,

With all the marks of rev’rend age appears,

His temples thinly spread with silver hairs;

Propp’d on his staff, and stooping as he goes,

A painted mitre shades his furrow’d brows.

The God in this decrepit form array’d,

The gardens enter’d, and the fruit survey’d,

And “Happy you!” (he thus address’d the maid)

“Whose charms as far all other nymphs out-shine,

“As other gardens are excell’d by thine!”

Then kiss’d the fair; (his kisses warmer grow

Than such as women on their sex bestow.)

Then plac’d beside her on the flow’ry ground,

Beheld the trees with autumn’s bounty crown’d.

An Elm was near, to whose embraces led,

The curling vine her swelling clusters spread:

He view’d her twining branches with delight,

And prais’d the beauty of the pleasing sight.

“Yet this tall elm, but for his vine” (he said)

“Had stood neglected, and a barren shade;

And this fair vine, but that her arms surround

Her marry’d elm, had crept along the ground.

Ah beauteous maid, let this example move

Your mind, averse from all the joys of love.

Deign to be lov’d, and ev’ry heart subdue!

What nymph could e’er attract such crowds as you?

Not she whose beauty urg’d the Centaurs’ arms,

Ulysses’ Queen, nor Helen’s fatal charms.

Ev’n now, when silent scorn is all they gain,

A thousand court you, tho’ they court in vain,

A thousand sylvans, demigods, and gods,

That haunt our mountains and our Alban woods.

But if you’ll prosper, mark what I advise,

Whom age, and long experience render wise,

And one whose tender care is far above

All that these lovers ever felt of love,

(Far more than e’er can by yourself be guess’d)

Fix on Vertumnus, and reject the rest.

For his firm faith I dare engage my own;

Scarce to himself, himself is better known.

To distant lands Vertumnus never roves;

Like you contented with his native groves;

Nor at first sight, like most, admires the fair;

For you he lives; and you alone shall share

His last affection, as his early care.

Besides, he’s lovely far above the rest,

With youth immortal, and with beauty blest.

Add, that he varies ev’ry shape with ease,

And tries all forms that may Pomona please.

But what should most excite a mutual flame,

Your rural cares, and pleasures are the same:

To him your orchard’s early fruits are due,

(A pleasing off’ring when ’tis made by you)

He values these; but yet (alas) complains,

That still the best and dearest gift remains.

Not the fair fruit that on yon’ branches glows

With that ripe red th’ autumnal sun bestows;

Nor tasteful herbs that in these gardens rise,

Which the kind soil with milky sap supplies;

You, only you, can move the God’s desire:

Oh crown so constant and so pure a fire!

Let soft compassion touch your gentle mind;

Think, ’tis Vertumnus begs you to be kind!

So may no frost, when early buds appear,

Destroy the promise of the youthful year;

Nor winds, when first your florid orchard blows,

Shake the light blossoms from their blasted boughs!”

This when the various God had urg’d in vain,

He straight assum’d his native form again;

Such, and so bright an aspect now he bears,

As when thro’ clouds th’ emerging sun appears,

And thence exerting his refulgent ray,

Dispels the darkness, and reveals the day.

Force he prepar’d, but check’d the rash design;

For when, appearing in a form divine,

The Nymph surveys him, and beholds the grace

Of charming features, and a youthful face,

In her soft breast consenting passions move,

And the warm maid confess’d a mutual love.

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Verses Left by Mr. Pope poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


With no poetic ardour fir’d

I press the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he lov’d, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie

Stretch’d out in honour’s nobler bed,

Beneath a nobler roof – the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;

And such as wicked kings may mourn,

When freedom is more dear than life.

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Translation of a Prayer of Brutus poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Goddess of woods, tremendous in the chase,

To mountain wolves and all the savage race,

Wide o’er the aerial vault extend thy sway,

And o’er the infernal regions void of day.

On thy third reign look down; disclose our fate,

In what new station shall we fix our seat?

When shall we next thy hallow’d altars raise,

And choirs of virgins celebrate thy praise?

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To the Author of a Poem Entitled Succession poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Begone, ye Critics, and restrain your spite,

Codrus writes on, and will for ever write,

The heaviest Muse the swiftest course has gone,

As clocks run fastest when most lead is on;

What tho’ no bees around your cradle flew,

Nor on your lips distill’d their golden dew;

Yet have we oft discover’d in their stead

When you, like Orpheus, strike the warbling lyre.

Attentive blocks stand round you and admire.

Wit pass’d through thee no longer is the same,

As meat digested takes a diff’rent name;

But sense must sure thy safest plunder be,

Since no reprisals can be made on thee.

Thus thou may’st rise, and in thy daring flight

(Though ne’er so weighty) reach a wondrous height.

So, forced from engines, lead itself can fly,

Sure Bavius copied Maevius to the full,

And Chaerilus taught Codrus to be dull;

Therefore, dear friend, at my advice give o’er

This needless labour; and contend no more

To prove a dull succession to be true,

Since ’tis enough we find it so in you.

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To Mrs. M. B. On Her Birthday poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Oh be thou blest with all that Heav’n can send,

Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a Friend:

Not with those Toys the female world admire,

Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.

With added years if Life bring nothing new,

But, like a Sieve, let ev’ry blessing thro’,

Some joy still lost, as each vain year runs o’er,

And all we gain, some sad Reflection more;

Is that a Birth-Day? ’tis alas! too clear,

‘Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Let Joy or Ease, let Affluence or Content,

And the gay Conscience of a life well spent,

Calm ev’ry thought, inspirit ev’ry grace.

Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.

Let day improve on day, and year on year,

Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;

Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,

In some soft Dream, or Extasy of joy,

Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,

And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

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To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his Birth-Day poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Resign’d to live, prepar’d to die,

With not one sin, but poetry,

This day Tom’s fair account has run

(Without a blot) to eighty-one.

Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays

A table, with a cloth of bays;

And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,

Presents her harp still to his fingers.

The feast, his tow’ring genius marks

In yonder wild goose and the larks!

The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!

And for his judgement, lo a pudden!

Roast beef, tho’ old, proclaims him stout,

And grace, altho’ a bard, devout.

May Tom, whom heav’n send down to raise

The price of prologues and of plays,

He ev’ry birth-day more a winner,

Digest his thirty thousandth dinner;

Walk to his grave without reproach,

And scorn a rascal and a coach.

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To Lady Mary Wortley Montagu poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


I.

In beauty, or wit,

No mortal as yet

To question your empire has dared:

But men of discerning

Have thought that in learning

To yield to a lady was hard.

II.

Impertinent schools,

With musty dull rules,

Have reading to females denied;

So Papists refuse

The Bible to use,

Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

III.

‘Twas a woman at first

(Indeed she was curst)

In knowledge that tasted delight,

And sages agree

The laws should decree

To the first possessor the right.

IV.

Then bravely, fair dame,

Resume the old claim,

Which to your whole sex does belong;

And let men receive,

From a second bright Eve,

The knowledge of right and of wrong.

V.

But if the first Eve

Hard doom did receive,

When only one apple had she,

What a punishment new

Shall be found out for you,

Who tasting, have robb’d the whole tree?

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The Three Gentle Shepherds poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


Of gentle Philips will I ever sing,

With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring.

My numbers too for ever will I vary,

With gentle Budgell and with gentle Carey.

Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill,

With gentle Carey and with gentle Budgell:

Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye,

Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy.

May satire ne’er befool ye, or beknave ye,

And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye.

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  1. A Long-Line Eldritch Narrative Poem) (Poetic Prose[]
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The Temple of Fame poem – Alexander Pope

A poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) , the greatest English poet of “Augustan” or Georgian period


In that soft season, when descending show’rs

Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow’rs;

When op’ning buds salute the welcome day,

And earth relenting feels the genial day,

As balmy sleep had charm’d my cares to rest,

And love itself was banish’d from my breast,

(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,

While purer slumbers spread their golden wings)

A train of phantoms in wild order rose,

And, join’d, this intellectual sense compose.

I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies;

The whole creation open to my eyes:

In air self-balanc’d hung the globe below,

Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;

Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,

There tow’ry cities, and the forests green:

Here sailing ships delight the wand’ring eyes:

There trees, and intermingled temples rise;

Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,

The transient landscape now in clouds decays.

O’er the wide Prospect as I gaz’d around,

Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,

Like broken thunders that at distance roar,

Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,

Whose tow’ring summit ambient clouds conceal’d.

High on a rock of Ice the structure lay,

Steep its ascent, and slipp’ry was the way;

The wond’rous rock like Parian marble shone,

And seem’d, to distant sight, of solid stone.

Inscriptions here of various Names I view’d,

The greater part by hostile time subdu’d;

Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,

And Poets once had promis’d they should last.

Some fresh engrav’d appear’d of Wits renown’d;

I look’d again, nor could their trace be found.

Critics I saw, that other names deface,

And fix their own, with labour, in their place:

Their own, like others, soon their place resign’d,

Or disappear’d, and left the first behind.

Nor was the work impair’d by storms alone,

But felt th’ approaches of too warm a sun;

For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays

Not more by Envy than excess of Praise.

Yet part no injuries of heav’n could feel,

Like crystal faithful to th’ graving steel:

The rock’s high summit, in the temple’s shade,

Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.

Their names inscrib’d, unnumber’d ages past

From time’s first birth, with time itself shall last;

These ever new, nor subject to decays,

Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.

So Zembla’s rocks (the beauteous work of frost)

Rise white in air, and glitter o’er the coast;

Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away,

And on th’ impassive ice the light’nings play;

Eternal snows the growing mass supply,

Till the bright mountains prop th’ incumbent sky:

As Atlas fix’d, each hoary pile appears,

The gather’d winter of a thousand years.

On this foundation Fame’s high temple stands;

Stupendous pile! not rear’d by mortal hands.

Whate’er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,

Or elder Babylon, its frame excell’d.

Four faces had the dome, and ev’ry face

Of various structure, but of equal grace:

Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,

Salute the diff’rent quarters of the sky.

Here fabled Chiefs in darker ages born,

Or Worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn,

Who cities rais’d, or tam’d a monstrous race;

The walls in venerable order grace:

Heroes in animated marble frown,

And Legislators seem to think in stone.

Westward, a sumptuous frontispiece appear’d,

On Doric pillars of white marble rear’d,

Crown’d with an architrave of antique mold,

And sculpture rising on the roughen’d mold,

In shaggy spoils here Theseus was beheld,

And Perseus dreadful with Minerva’s shield:

There great Alcides stooping with his toil,

Rests on his club, and holds th’ Hesperian spoil.

Here Orpheus sings; trees moving to the sound

Start from their roots, and form a shade around:

Amphion there the loud creating lyre

Strikes, and beholds a sudden Thebes aspire!

Cithaeron’s echoes answer to his call,

And half the mountain rolls into a wall:

There might you see the length’ning spires ascend,

The domes swell up, the wid’ning arches bend,

The growing tow’rs, like exhalations rise,

And the huge columns heave into the skies.

The Eastern front was glorious to behold,

With di’mond flaming, and Barbaric gold.

There Ninus shone, who spread th’ Assyrian fame,

And the great founder of the Persian name:

There in long robes the royal Magi stand,

Grave Zoroaster waves the circling wand,

The sage Chaldaeans rob’d in white appear’d,

And Brahmans, deep in desert woods rever’d.

These stop’d the moon, and call’d th’ unbody’d shades

To midnight banquets in the glimm’ring glades;

Made visionary fabrics round them rise,

And airy spectres skim before their eyes;

Of Talismans and Sigils knew the pow’r,

And careful watch’d the Planetary hour.

Superior, and alone, Confucius stood,

Who taught that useful science, to be good.

But on the South, a long majestic race

Of AEgypt’s Priests the gilded niches grace,

Who measur’d earth, describ’d the starry spheres,

And trac’d the long records of lunar years.

High on his car Sesostris struck my view,

Whom scepter’d slaves in golden harness drew:

His hands a bow and pointed javelin hold;

His giant limbs are arm’d in scales of gold.

Between the statues Obelisks were plac’d,

And the learn’d walls with Hieroglyphics grac’d.

Of Gothic structure was the Northern side,

O’erwrought with ornaments of barb’rous pride.

There huge Colosses rose, with trophies crown’d,

And Runic characters were grav’d around.

There sate Zamolxis with erected eyes,

And Odin here in mimic trances dies.

There on rude iron columns, smear’d with blood,

The horrid forms of Scythian heroes stood,

Druids and Bards (their once loud harps unstrung)

And youths that died to be by Poets sung.

These and a thousand more of doubtful fame,

To whom old fables gave a lasting name,

In ranks adorn’d the Temple’s outward face;

The wall in lustre and effect like Glass,

Which o’er each object casting various dyes,

Enlarges some, and others multiplies:

Nor void of emblem was the mystic wall,

For thus romantic Fame increases all.

The Temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold,

Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold:

Rais’d on a thousand pillars, wreath’d around

With laurel-foliage, and with eagles crown’d:

Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls,

The friezes gold, an gold the capitals:

As heav’n with stars, the roof with jewels glows,

And ever-living lamps depend in rows.

Full in the passage of each spacious gate,

The sage Historians in white garments wait;

Grav’d o’er their seats the form of Time was found,

His scythe revers’d, and both his pinions bound.

Within stood Heroes, who thro’ loud alarms

In bloody fields pursu’d renown in arms.

High on a throne with trophies charg’d, I view’d

The Youth that all things but himself subdu’d;

His feet on sceptres and tiara’s trod,

And his horn’d head bely’d the Libyan God.

There Caesar, grac’d with both Minerva’s, shone;

Unmov’d, superior still in ev’ry state,

And scarce detested in his Country’s fate.

But chief were those, who not for empire fought,

But with their toils their people’s safety bought:

High o’er the rest Epaminondas stood;

Timoleon, glorious in his brother’s blood;

Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state;

Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;

And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind

With boundless pow’r unbounded virtue join’d,

His own strict judge, and patron of mankind.

Much-suff’ring heroes next their honours claim,

Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame,

Fair Virtue’s silent train: supreme of these

Here ever shines the godlike Socrates:

He whom ungrateful Athens could expell,

At all times just, but when he sign’d the Shell:

Here his abode the martyr’d Phocion claims,

With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:

Unconquered Cato shews the wound he tore,

And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more.

But in the centre of the hallow’d choir,

Six pompous columns o’er the rest aspire;

Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand,

Hold the chief honours, and the fane command.

High on the first, the mighty Homer shone;

Eternal Adamant compos’d his throne;

Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,

His silver beard wav’d gently o’er his breast;

Tho’ blind, a boldness in his looks appears;

In years he seem’d, but not impair’d by years.

The wars of Troy were round the Pillar seen:

Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;

Here Hector glorious from Patroclus’ fall,

Here dragg’d in triumph round the Trojan wall,

Motion and life did ev’ry part inspire,

Bold was the work, and prov’d the master’s fire;

A strong expression most he seem’d t’ affect,

And here and there disclos’d a brave neglect.

A golden column next in rank appear’d,

On which a shrine of purest gold was rear’d;

Finish’d the whole, and labour’d ev’ry part,

With patient touches of unweary’d art:

The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,

Compos’d his posture, and his look sedate;

On Homer still he fix’d a rev’rend eye,

Great without pride, in modest majesty.

In living sculpture on the sides were spread

The Latian Wars, and haughty Turnus dead;

Eliza stretch’d upon the fun’ral pyre,

AEneas ending with his aged sire:

Troy flam’d in burning gold, and o’er the throne

Arms of the Man in golden cyphers shone.

Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,

With heads advanc’d, and pinions stretch’d for flight:

Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,

And seem’d to labour with th’ inspiring God.

Across the harp a careless hand he flings,

And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.

The figur’d games of Greece the column grace,

Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race.

The youths hand o’er their chariots as they run;

The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone;

The champions in distorted postures threat;

And all appear’d irregularly great.

Here happy Horace tun’d th’ Ausonian lyre

To sweeter sounds, and temper’d Pindar’s fire:

Pleas’d with Alcaeus’ manly rage t’ infuse

The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse.

The polish’d pillar diff’rent sculptures grace;

A work outlasting monumental brass.

Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear,

The Julian star, and great Augustus here,

The Doves that round the infant poet spread

Myrtles and bays, hung hov’ring o’er his head.

Here in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,

Sate fix’d in thought the mighty Stagirite;

His sacred head a radiant Zodiac crown’d,

And various Animals his sides surround;

His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view

Superior worlds, and look all Nature through.

With equal rays immortal Tully shone,

The Roman Rostra deck’d the Consul’s throne:

Gath’ring his flowing robe, he seem’d to stand

In act to speak, and graceful stretch’d his hand.

Behind, Rome’s Genius waits with Civic crowns,

And the great Father of his country owns.

These massy columns in a circle rise,

O’er which a pompous dome invades the skies:

Scarce to the top I stretch’d my aching sight,

So large it spread, and swell’d to such a height.

Full in the midst proud Fame’s imperial seat,

With jewels blaz’d, magnificently great;

The vivid em’ralds there revive the eye,

The flaming rubies shew their sanguine dye,

Bright azure rays from lively sapphrys stream,

And lucid amber casts a golden gleam.

With various-colour’d light the pavement shone,

And all on fire appear’d the glowing throne;

The dome’s high arch reflects the mingled blaze,

And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.

When on the Goddess first I cast my sight,

Scarce seem’d her stature of a cubit’s height;

But swell’d to larger size, the more I gaz’d,

Till to the roof her tow’ring front she rais’d.

With her, the Temple ev’ry moment grew,

And ampler Vista’s open’d to my view:

Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,

And arches widen, and long aisles extend.

Such was her form as ancient bards have told,

Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;

A thousand busy tongues the Goddess bears,

And thousand open eyes, and thousand list’ning ears.

Beneath, in order rang’d, the tuneful Nine

(Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine:

With eyes on Fame for ever fix’d, they sing;

For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string;

With time’s first birth began the heav’nly lays,

And last, eternal, thro’ the length of days.

Around these wonders as I cast a look,

The trumpet sounded, and the temple shoo,

And all the nations, summon’d at the call,

From diff’rent quarters fill the crowded hall:

Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard;

In various garbs promiscuous throngs appear’d;

Thick as the bees, that with the spring renew

Their flow’ry toils, and sip the fragrant dew,

When the wing’d colonies first tempt the sky,

O’er dusky fields and shaded waters fly,

Or settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,

And a low murmur runs along the field.

Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,

And all degrees before the Goddess bend;

The poor, the rich, the valiant and the sage,

And boasting youth, and narrative old-age.

Their pleas were diff’rent, their request the same:

For good and bad alike are fond of Fame.

Some she disgrac’d, and some with honours crown’d;

Unlike successes equal merits found.

Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,

And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.

First at the shrine the Learned world appear,

And to the Goddess thus prefer their play’r.

“Long have we sought t’ instruct and please mankind,

With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind;

But thank’d by few, rewarded yet by none,

We here appeal to thy superior throne:

On wit and learning the just prize bestow,

For fame is all we must expect below.”

The Goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise

The golden Trumpet of eternal Praise:

From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound,

That fills the circuit of the world around;

Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud;

The notes at first were rather sweet than loud:

By just degrees they ev’ry moment rise,

Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.

At ev’ry breath were balmy odours shed,

Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;

Less fragrant scents th’ unfolding rose exhales,

Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.

Next these the good and just, an awful train,

Thus on their knees address the sacred fane.

“Since living virtue is with envy curs’d,

And the best men are treated like the worst,

Do thou, just Goddess, call our merits forth,

And give each deed th’ exact intrinsic worth.”

“Not with bare justice shall your act be crown’d”

(Said Fame) “but high above desert renown’d:

Let fuller notes th’ applauding world amaze,

And the full loud clarion labour in your praise.”

This band dismiss’d, behold another croud

The constant tenour of whose well-spent days

No less deserv’d a just return of praise.

But strait the direful Trump of Slander sounds;

Thro’ the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;

Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,

The dire report thro’ ev’ry region flies,

In ev’ry ear incessant rumours rung,

And gath’ring scandals grew on ev’ry tongue.

From the black trumpet’s rusty concave broke

Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke:

The pois’nous vapour blots the purple skies,

And withers all before it as it flies.

A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,

And proud defiance in their looks they bore:

“For thee” (they cry’d) “amidst alarms and strife,

We sail’d in tempests down the stream of life;

For thee whole nations fill’d with flames and blood,

And swam to empire thro’ the purple flood.

Those ills we dar’d, thy inspiration own,

What virtue seem’d, was done for thee alone.”

“Ambitious fools!” (the Queen reply’d, and frown’d)

“Be all your acts in dark oblivion drown’d;

There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,

Your statues moulder’d, and your names unknown!”

A sudden cloud straight snatch’d them from my sight,

And each majestic phantom sunk in night.

Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;

Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.

“Great idol of mankind! we neither claim

The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame!

But safe in deserts from th’ applause of men,

Would die unheard of, as we liv’d unseen,

‘Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight

Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite.

To follow virtue ev’n for virtue’s sake.”

“And live there men, who slight immortal fame?

Who then with incense shall adore our name?

But mortals! know, ’tis still our greatest pride

To blaze those virtues, which the good would hide.

Rise! Muses, rise; add all your tuneful breath,

These must not sleep in darkness and in death.”

She said: in air the trembling music floats,

And on the winds triumphant swell the notes;

So soft, tho’ high, so loud, and yet so clear,

Ev’n list’ning Angels lean’d from heav’n to hear:

To farthest shores th’ Ambrosial spirit flies,

Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.

Next these a youthful train their vows express’d,

With feathers crown’d, with gay embroid’ry dress’d:

“Hither,” they cry’d, “direct your eyes, and see

The men of pleasure, dress, and gallantry;

Ours is the place at banquets, balls, and plays,

Sprightly our nights, polite are all our days;

Courts we frequent, where ’tis our pleasing care

To pay due visits, and address the fair:

In fact, ’tis true, no nymph we could persuade,

But still in fancy vanquish’d ev’ry maid;

Of unknown Duchesses lewd tales we tell,

Yet, would the world believe us, all were well.

The joy let others have, and we the name,

And what we want in pleasure, grant in fame.”

The Queen assents, the trumpet rends the skies,

And at each blast a Lady’s honour dies.

Pleas’d with the strange success, vast numbers prest

Around the shrine, and made the same request:

“What? you,” (she cry’d) “unlearn’d in arts to please,

Slaves to yourselves, and ev’n fatigu’d with ease,

Who lose a length of undeserving days,

Would you usurp the lover’s dear-bought praise?

To just contempt, ye vain pretenders, fall,

The people’s fable, and the scorn of all.”

Straight the black clarion sends a horrid sound,

Loud laughs burst out, and bitter scoffs fly round,

Whispers are heard, with taunts reviling loud,

And scornful hisses run thro’ the crowd.

Last, those who boast of mighty mischiefs done,

Enslave their country, or usurp a throne;

Or who their glory’s dire foundation lay’d

On Sov’reigns ruin’d, or on friends betray’d;

Calm, thinking villains, whom no faith could fix,

Of crooked counsels and dark politics;

Of these a gloomy tribe surround the throne,

And beg to make th’ immortal treasons known.

The trumpet roars, long flaky flames expire,

With sparks, that seem’d to set the world on fire.

At the dread sound, pale mortals stood aghast,

And startled nature trembled with the blast.

This having heard and seen, and snatch’d me from the throne.

Before my view appear’d a structure fair,

Its site uncertain, if in earth or air;

With rapid motion turn’d the mansion round;

With ceaseless noise the ringing walls resound;

Not less in number were the spacious doors,

Than leaves on trees, or sand upon the shores;

Which still unfolded stand, by night, by day,

Pervious to winds, and open ev’ry way.

As flames by nature to the skies ascend,

As weighty bodies to the centre tend,

As to the sea returning rivers toll,

And the touch’d needle trembles to the pole;

Hither, as to their proper place, arise

All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies,

Or spoke aloud, or whisper’d in the ear;

Nor ever silence, rest, or peace is here.

As on the smooth expanse of crystal lakes

The sinking stone at first a circle makes;

The trembling surface by the motion stir’d,

Spreads in a second circle, then a third;

Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance,

Fill all the wat’ry plain, and to the margin dance:

Thus ev’ry voice and sound, when first they break,

On neighb’ring air a soft impression make;

Another ambient circle then they move;

That, in its turn, impels the next above;

Thro’ undulating air the sounds are sent,

And spread o’er all the fluid element.

There various news I heard of love and strife,

Of peace and war, health, sickness, death, and life,

Of loss and gain, of famine and of store,

Of storms at sea, and travels on the shore,

Of prodigies, and portents seen in air,

Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair,

Of turns of fortune, changes in the state,

The falls of fav’rites, projects of the great,

Of old mismanagements, taxations new:

All neither wholly false, nor wholly true.

Above, below, without, within, around.

Confus’d, unnumber’d multitudes are found,

Who pass, repass, advance, and glide away;

Hosts rais’d by fear, and phantoms of a day:

Astrologers, that future fates foreshew,

Projectors, quacks, and lawyers not a few;

And priests, and party-zealots, num’rous bands

With home-born lies, or tales from foreign lands;

Each talk’d aloud, or in some secret place,

And wild impatience star’d in ev’ry face.

The flying rumours gather’d as they roll’d,

Scarce any tale was sooner heard than told;

And all who told it added something new,

And all who heard it, made enlargements too,

In ev’ry ear it spread, on ev’ry tongue it grew.

Thus flying east and west, and north and south,

News travel’d with increase from mouth to mouth.

So from a spark, that kindled first by chance,

With gath’ring force the quick’ning flames advance;

Till to the clouds their curling heads aspire,

And tow’rs and temples sink in floods of fire.

When thus ripe lies are to perfection sprung,

Full grown, and fit to grace a mortal tongue,

Thro’ thousand vents, impatient, forth they flow,

And rush in millions on the world below.

Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course,

Their date determines, and prescribes their force:

Some to remain, and some to perish soon;

Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.

Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,

Borne by the trumpet’s blast, and scatter’d thro’ the sky.

There, at one passage, oft you might survey

A lie and truth contending for the way;

And long ’twas doubtful, both so closely pent,

Which first should issue thro’ the narrow vent:

At last agreed, together out they fly,

Inseparable now, the truth and lie;

The strict companions are for ever join’d,

And this or that unmix’d, no mortal e’er shall find.

While thus I stood, intent to see and hear,

One came, methought, and whisper’d in my ear:

What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?

Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?

‘Tis true, said I, not void of hopes I came,

For who so fond as youthful bards of Fame?

But few, alas! the casual blessing boast,

So hard to gain, so easy to be lost.

How vain that second life in others breath,

Th’ estate which wits inherit after death!

Ease, health, and life, for this they must resign,

(Unsure the tenure, but how vast the fine!)

The great man’s curse, without the gains endure,

Be envy’d, wretched, and be flatter’d, poor;

All luckless wits their enemies profest,

And all successful, jealous friends at best.

Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;

She comes unlook’d for, if she comes at all.

But if the purchase costs so dear a price,

As soothing Folly, or exalting Vice:

Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,

And follow still where fortune leads the way;

Or if no basis bear my rising name,

But the fall’n ruin of another’s fame;

Then teach me, heav’n! to scorn the guilty bays,

Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise,

Unblemish’d let me live, or die unknown;

Oh grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

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