The Poetical Works of Addison; Gay's Fables; and Somerville's Chase · Chapter 4An Ode for St Cecilia's Day
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Prepare the hallowed strain, my Muse, Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers choose; The bright Cecilia's praise rehearse, In warbling words, and gliding verse, That smoothly run into a song, And gently die away, and melt upon the tongue. First let the sprightly violin The joyful melody begin, And none of all her strings be mute;
While the sharp sound and shriller lay _10 In sweet harmonious notes decay, Softened and mellowed by the flute. 'The flute that sweetly can complain, Dissolve the frozen nymph's disdain; Panting sympathy impart, Till she partake her lover's smart.'[4]
Next, let the solemn organ join Religious airs, and strains divine, Such as may lift us to the skies, And set all Heaven before our eyes: _20 'Such as may lift us to the skies; So far at least till they Descend with kind surprise, And meet our pious harmony half-way.'
Let then the trumpet's piercing sound Our ravished ears with pleasure wound. The soul o'erpowering with delight, As, with a quick uncommon ray, A streak of lightning clears the day, And flashes on the sight. _30 Let Echo too perform her part, Prolonging every note with art, And in a low expiring strain Play all the concert o'er again.
Such were the tuneful notes that hung On bright Cecilia's charming tongue: Notes that sacred heats inspired, And with religious ardour fired: The love-sick youth, that long suppress'd His smothered passion in his breast, _40 No sooner heard the warbling dame, But, by the secret influence turn'd, He felt a new diviner flame, And with devotion burn'd.
With ravished soul, and looks amazed, Upon her beauteous face he gazed; Nor made his amorous complaint: In vain her eyes his heart had charm'd, Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm'd, And changed the lover to a saint. _50
And now the choir complete rejoices, With trembling strings and melting voices. The tuneful ferment rises high, And works with mingled melody: Quick divisions run their rounds, A thousand trills and quivering sounds In airy circles o'er us fly, Till, wafted by a gentle breeze, They faint and languish by degrees, And at a distance die. _60
Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request A short account of all the Muse-possess'd, That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times, Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes; Without more preface, writ in formal length, To speak the undertaker's want of strength, I'll try to make their several beauties known, And show their verses' worth, though not my own.
Long had our dull forefathers slept supine, Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine; _10 Till Chaucer first, the merry bard, arose, And many a story told in rhyme and prose. But age has rusted what the poet writ, Worn out his language, and obscured his wit; In vain he jests in his unpolished strain, And tries to make his readers laugh in vain. Old Spenser next, warmed with poetic rage, In ancient tales amused a barbarous age; An age that yet uncultivate and rude, Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued _20 Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore, Can charm an understanding age no more; The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, While the dull moral lies too plain below. We view well-pleased at distance all the sights Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, And damsels in distress, and courteous knights; But when we look too near, the shades decay, _30 And all the pleasing landscape fades away. Great Cowley then (a mighty genius) wrote, O'errun with wit, and lavish of his thought: His turns too closely on the reader press; He more had pleased us, had he pleased us less. One glittering thought no sooner strikes our eyes With silent wonder, but new wonders rise. As in the milky-way a shining white O'erflows the heavens with one continued light; That not a single star can show his rays, _40 Whilst jointly all promote the common blaze. Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name The unnumbered beauties of thy verse with blame; Thy fault is only wit in its excess, But wit like thine in any shape will please. What Muse but thine can equal hints inspire, And fit the deep-mouthed Pindar to thy lyre; Pindar, whom others, in a laboured strain And forced expression, imitate in vain? Well-pleased in thee he soars with new delight, _50 And plays in more unbounded verse, and takes a nobler flight. Blest man! whose spotless life and charming lays Employed the tuneful prelate in thy praise: Blest man! who now shalt be for ever known In Sprat's successful labours and thy own. But Milton next, with high and haughty stalks, Unfettered in majestic numbers walks; No vulgar hero can his Muse engage; Nor earth's wide scene confine his hallowed rage. See! see! he upward springs, and towering high, _60 Spurns the dull province of mortality, Shakes heaven's eternal throne with dire alarms, And sets the Almighty thunderer in arms. Whate'er his pen describes I more than see, Whilst every verse arrayed in majesty, Bold, and sublime, my whole attention draws, And seems above the critic's nicer laws. How are you struck with terror and delight, When angel with archangel copes in fight! When great Messiah's outspread banner shines, _70 How does the chariot rattle in his lines! What sounds of brazen wheels, what thunder, scare, And stun the reader with the din of war! With fear my spirits and my blood retire, To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire; But when, with eager steps, from hence I rise, And view the first gay scenes of Paradise, What tongue, what words of rapture, can express A vision so profuse of pleasantness! Oh, had the poet ne'er profaned his pen, _80 To varnish o'er the guilt of faithless men, His other works might have deserved applause; But now the language can't support the cause; While the clean current, though serene and bright, Betrays a bottom odious to the sight. But now, my Muse, a softer strain rehearse, Turn every line with art, and smooth thy verse; The courtly Waller next commands thy lays: Muse, tune thy verse with art to Waller's praise. While tender airs and lovely dames inspire _90 Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire; So long shall Waller's strains our passion move, And Sacharissa's beauties kindle love. Thy verse, harmonious bard, and flattering song, Can make the vanquished great, the coward strong. Thy verse can show even Cromwell's innocence, And compliment the storms that bore him hence. Oh, had thy Muse not come an age too soon, But seen great Nassau on the British throne, How had his triumphs glittered in thy page, _100 And warmed thee to a more exalted rage! What scenes of death and horror had we view'd, And how had Boyne's wide current reeked in blood! Or, if Maria's charms thou wouldst rehearse, In smoother numbers and a softer verse, Thy pen had well described her graceful air, And Gloriana would have seemed more fair. Nor must Roscommon pass neglected by, That makes even rules a noble poetry: Rules, whose deep sense and heavenly numbers show _110 The best of critics, and of poets too. Nor, Denham, must we e'er forget thy strains, While Cooper's Hill commands the neighbouring plains. But see where artful Dryden next appears, Grown old in rhyme, but charming even in years. Great Dryden next, whose tuneful Muse affords The sweetest numbers, and the fittest words. Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs She forms her voice, she moves our smiles or tears. If satire or heroic strains she writes, _120 Her hero pleases and her satire bites. From her no harsh unartful numbers fall, She wears all dresses, and she charms in all. How might we fear our English poetry, That long has flourished, should decay with thee; Did not the Muses' other hope appear, Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear: Congreve! whose fancy's unexhausted store Has given already much, and promised more. Congreve shall still preserve thy fame alive, _130 And Dryden's Muse shall in his friend survive. I'm tired with rhyming, and would fain give o'er, But justice still demands one labour more: The noble Montague remains unnamed, For wit, for humour, and for judgment famed; To Dorset he directs his artful Muse, In numbers such as Dorset's self might use. How negligently graceful he unreins His verse, and writes in loose familiar strains! How Nassau's godlike acts adorn his lines, _140 And all the hero in full glory shines! We see his army set in just array, And Boyne's dyed waves run purple to the sea. Nor Simois choked with men, and arms, and blood; Nor rapid Xanthus' celebrated flood, Shall longer be the poet's highest themes, Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous in their streams. But now, to Nassau's secret councils raised, He aids the hero, whom before he praised. I've done at length; and now, dear friend, receive _150 The last poor present that my Muse can give. I leave the arts of poetry and verse To them that practise them with more success. Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell, And so at once, dear friend and Muse, farewell.
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus, Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes. VIRG., Geor. ii.
While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia's public posts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease; Me into foreign realms my fate conveys, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme. For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, _10 Poetic fields encompass me around And still I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung, Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. How am I pleased to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods! To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source, _20 To see the Mincio draw his watery store Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, And hoary Albula's infected tide O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. Fired with a thousand raptures I survey Eridanus[5] through flowery meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. _30 Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng I look for streams immortalised in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,) Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill, And in the smooth description murmur still. Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the famed river's empty shores admire, That, destitute of strength, derives its course From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source, _40 Yet sung so often in poetic lays, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd, And unobserved in wild meanders play'd; Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renowned, Its rising billows through the world resound, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse. _50 Oh could the Muse my ravished breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumbered beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine! See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: _60 Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions strive, _70 When Rome's exalted beauties I descry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, And held uncrowded nations in its womb; Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies; And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans' deathless acts displayed, Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid: _80 Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, And wondering at their height through airy channels flow. Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires; Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, And softened into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand; Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, And emperors in Parian marble frown; _90 While the bright dames, to whom they humble sued, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdued. Fain would I Raphæl's godlike art rehearse, And show the immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow. From theme to theme with secret pleasure toss'd, Amidst the soft variety I'm lost: _100 Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound With circling notes and labyrinths of sound; Here domes and temples rise in distant views, And opening palaces invite my Muse. How has kind Heaven adorned the happy land, And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, _110 While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orange and the swelling grain: Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curs'd, And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, _120 Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; Eased of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! _130 On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. _140 Others with towering piles may please the sight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretched canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbours' prayer. The Dane and Swede, roused up by fierce alarms, Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms: _150 Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hushed in peace. The ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aimed at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite; But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsels guide. Fired with the name, which I so oft have found The distant climes and different tongues resound, _160 I bridle in my struggling Muse with pain, That longs to launch into a bolder strain. But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song. My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for heroes, whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise.