The Poetical Works of Mark Akenside Part 18

Stake his luxurious fortunes in the strife?

Or lend his boasted name his vagrant friends to cheer?

VI.--3.

Yet, Hastings, these are they Who challenge to themselves thy country's love; The true; the constant: who alone can weigh, What glory should demand, or liberty approve!

But let their works declare them. Thy free powers, The generous powers of thy prevailing mind, Not for the tasks of their confederate hours, Lewd brawls and lurking slander, were design'd.

Be thou thy own approver. Honest praise Oft n.o.bly sways Ingenuous youth; But, sought from cowards and the lying mouth, Praise is reproach. Eternal G.o.d alone For mortals fixeth that sublime award.

He, from the faithful records of his throne, Bids the historian and the bard Dispose of honour and of scorn; Discern the patriot from the slave; And write the good, the wise, the brave, For lessons to the mult.i.tude unborn.

[Footnote 1: 'A tyrant:' Octavia.n.u.s Caesar.]

BOOK II.

ODE I.

THE REMONSTRANCE OF SHAKSPEARE:

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, WHILE THE FRENCH COMEDIANS WERE ACTING BY SUBSCRIPTION. 1749.

If, yet regardful of your native land, Old Shakspeare's tongue you deign to understand, Lo, from the blissful bowers where heaven rewards Instructive sages and unblemish'd bards, I come, the ancient founder of the stage, Intent to learn, in this discerning age, What form of wit your fancies have embraced, And whither tends your elegance of taste, That thus at length our homely toils you spurn, That thus to foreign scenes you proudly turn, 10 That from my brow the laurel wreath you claim To crown the rivals of your country's fame.

What though the footsteps of my devious Muse The measured walks of Grecian art refuse?

Or though the frankness of my hardy style Mock the nice touches of the critic's file?

Yet, what my age and climate held to view, Impartial I survey'd and fearless drew.

And say, ye skilful in the human heart, Who know to prize a poet's n.o.blest part, 20 What age, what clime, could e'er an ampler field For lofty thought, for daring fancy, yield?

I saw this England break the shameful bands Forged for the souls of men by sacred hands: I saw each groaning realm her aid implore; Her sons the heroes of each warlike sh.o.r.e: Her naval standard (the dire Spaniard's bane) Obey'd through all the circuit of the main.

Then, too, great Commerce, for a late found world, Around your coast her eager sails unfurl'd! 30 New hopes, new pa.s.sions, thence the bosom fired; New plans, new arts, the genius thence inspired; Thence every scene, which private fortune knows, In stronger life, with bolder spirit, rose.

Disgraced I this full prospect which I drew, My colours languid, or my strokes untrue?

Have not your sages, warriors, swains, and kings, Confess'd the living draught of men and things?

What other bard in any clime appears Alike the master of your smiles and tears? 40 Yet have I deign'd your audience to entice With wretched bribes to luxury and vice?

Or have my various scenes a purpose known Which freedom, virtue, glory, might not own?

Such from the first was my dramatic plan; It should be yours to crown what I began: And now that England spurns her Gothic chain, And equal laws and social science reign, I thought, Now surely shall my zealous eyes View n.o.bler bards and juster critics rise, 50 Intent with learned labour to refine The copious ore of Albion's native mine, Our stately Muse more graceful airs to teach, And form her tongue to more attractive speech, Till rival nations listen at her feet, And own her polish'd as they own her great.

But do you thus my favourite hopes fulfil?

Is France at last the standard of your skill?

Alas for you! that so betray a mind Of art unconscious and to beauty blind. 60 Say, does her language your ambition raise, Her barren, trivial, unharmonious phrase, Which fetters eloquence to scantiest bounds, And maims the cadence of poetic sounds?

Say, does your humble admiration choose The gentle prattle of her Comic Muse, While wits, plain-dealers, fops, and fools appear, Charged to say nought but what the king may hear?

Or rather melt your sympathising hearts Won by her tragic scene's romantic arts, 70 Where old and young declaim on soft desire, And heroes never, but for love, expire?

No. Though the charms of novelty, a while, Perhaps too fondly win your thoughtless smile, Yet not for you design'd indulgent fate The modes or manners of the Bourbon state.

And ill your minds my partial judgment reads, And many an augury my hope misleads, If the fair maids of yonder blooming train To their light courtship would an audience deign, 80 Or those chaste matrons a Parisian wife Choose for the model of domestic life; Or if one youth of all that generous band, The strength and splendour of their native land, Would yield his portion of his country's fame, And quit old freedom's patrimonial claim, With lying smiles oppression's pomp to see, And judge of glory by a king's decree.

O bless'd at home with justly-envied laws, O long the chiefs of Europe's general cause, 90 Whom heaven hath chosen at each dangerous hour To check the inroads of barbaric power, The rights of trampled nations to reclaim, And guard the social world from bonds and shame; Oh! let not luxury's fantastic charms Thus give the lie to your heroic arms: Nor for the ornaments of life embrace Dishonest lessons from that vaunting race, Whom fate's dread laws (for, in eternal fate Despotic rule was heir to freedom's hate), 100 Whom in each warlike, each commercial part, In civil council, and in pleasing art, The judge of earth predestined for your foes, And made it fame and virtue to oppose.

ODE II.

TO SLEEP.

1 Thou silent power, whose welcome sway Charms every anxious thought away; In whose divine oblivion drown'd, Sore pain and weary toil grow mild, Love is with kinder looks beguiled, And grief forgets her fondly cherish'd wound; Oh, whither hast thou flown, indulgent G.o.d?

G.o.d of kind shadows and of healing dews, Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethaean rod?

Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?

2 Lo, Midnight from her starry reign Looks awful down on earth and main.

The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep, With all that crop the verdant food, With all that skim the crystal flood, Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.

No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers; No wakeful sound the moonlight valley knows, Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours, And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.

3 Oh, let not me alone complain, Alone invoke thy power in vain!

Descend, propitious, on my eyes; Not from the couch that bears a crown, Not from the courtly statesman's down, Nor where the miser and his treasure lies: Bring not the shapes that break the murderer's rest, Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see, Nor those which haunt the bigot's gloomy breast: Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!

4 Nor yet those awful forms present, For chiefs and heroes only meant: The figured bra.s.s, the choral song, The rescued people's glad applause, The listening senate, and the laws Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's [1] tongue, Are scenes too grand for fortune's private ways; And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view, The sober gainful arts of modern days To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.

5 I ask not, G.o.d of dreams, thy care To banish Love's presentments fair: Nor rosy cheek nor radiant eye Can arm him with such strong command That the young sorcerer's fatal hand Should round my soul his pleasing fetters tie.

Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile (A lighter phantom, and a baser chain) Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.

6 But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing Such honourable visions bring, As soothed great Milton's injured age, When in prophetic dreams he saw The race unborn with pious awe Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page: Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows When health's deep treasures, by his art explored, Have saved the infant from an orphan's woes, Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restored.

[Footnote: 1: After Timoleon had delivered Syracuse from the tyranny of Dionysius, the people on every important deliberation sent for him into the public a.s.sembly, asked his advice, and voted according to it.

--_Plutarch_.]

ODE III.

TO THE CUCKOO.

1 O rustic herald of the spring, At length in yonder woody vale Fast by the brook I hear thee sing; And, studious of thy homely tale, Amid the vespers of the grove, Amid the chanting choir of love, Thy sage responses hail.

2 The time has been when I have frown'd To hear thy voice the woods invade; And while thy solemn accent drown'd Some sweeter poet of the shade, Thus, thought I, thus the sons of care Some constant youth or generous fair With dull advice upbraid.

3 I said, 'While Philomela's song Proclaims the pa.s.sion of the grove, It ill beseems a cuckoo's tongue Her charming language to reprove'-- Alas, how much a lover's ear Hates all the sober truth to hear, The sober truth of love!

4 When hearts are in each other bless'd, When nought but lofty faith can rule The nymph's and swain's consenting breast, How cuckoo-like in Cupid's school, With store of grave prudential saws On fortune's power and custom's laws, Appears each friendly fool!