The Poetical Works of Mark Akenside Part 21

Then drew the lawgivers around (Sires of the Grecian name renown'd), And listening ask'd, and wondering knew, What private force could thus subdue The vulgar and the great combined; Could war with sacred folly wage; Could a whole nation disengage From the dread bonds of many an age, And to new habits mould the public mind.

II.-3.

For not a conqueror's sword, Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his; but truth by faithful search explored, And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown.

Wherever it took root, the soul (restored To freedom) freedom too for others sought.

Not monkish craft, the tyrant's claim divine, Not regal zeal, the bigot's cruel shrine, Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage; Nor the wild rabble to sedition wrought, Nor synods by the papal Genius taught, Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage.

III.--1.

But where shall recompense be found?

Or how such arduous merit crown'd?

For look on life's laborious scene: What rugged s.p.a.ces lie between Adventurous Virtue's early toils And her triumphal throne! The shade Of death, meantime, does oft invade Her progress; nor, to us display'd, Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils.

III.--2.

Yet born to conquer is her power;-- O Hoadly, if that favourite hour On earth arrive, with thankful awe We own just Heaven's indulgent law, And proudly thy success behold; We attend thy reverend length of days With benediction and with praise, And hail thee in our public ways Like some great spirit famed in ages old.

III.--3.

While thus our vows prolong Thy steps on earth, and when by us resign'd Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng Who rescued or preserved the rights of human kind, Oh! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name: Oh! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes, May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize, Make public virtue, public freedom, vile; Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim That heritage, our n.o.blest wealth and fame, Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile.

ODE VIII.

1 If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fix'd in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell, What fair can Amoret excel?

2 Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet (she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen) We nought but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

3 But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half that sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.

4 Yet not a satirist could there Or fault or indiscretion find; Nor any prouder sage declare One virtue, pictured in his mind, Whose form with lovelier colours glows Than Amoret's demeanour shows.

5 This sure is Beauty's happiest part: This gives the most unbounded sway: This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of time, Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE IX.

AT STUDY.

1 Whither did my fancy stray?

By what magic drawn away Have I left my studious theme, From this philosophic page, From the problems of the sage, Wandering through a pleasing dream?

2 'Tis in vain, alas! I find, Much in vain, my zealous mind Would to learned Wisdom's throne Dedicate each thoughtful hour: Nature bids a softer power Claim some minutes for his own.

3 Let the busy or the wise View him with contemptuous eyes; Love is native to the heart: Guide its wishes as you will; Without Love you'll find it still Void in one essential part.

4 Me though no peculiar fair Touches with a lover's care; Though the pride of my desire Asks immortal friendship's name, Asks the palm of honest fame, And the old heroic lyre;

5 Though the day have smoothly gone, Or to letter'd leisure known, Or in social duty spent; Yet at eve my lonely breast Seeks in vain for perfect rest; Languishes for true content.

ODE X.

TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ESQ.; ON THE LATE EDITION OF MR. POPE'S WORKS. 1751.

1 Believe me, Edwards, to restrain The licence of a railer's tongue Is what but seldom men obtain By sense or wit, by prose or song: A task for more Herculean powers, Nor suited to the sacred hours Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.

2 In bowers where laurel weds with palm, The Muse, the blameless queen, resides: Fair Fame attends, and Wisdom calm Her eloquence harmonious guides: While, shut for ever from her gate, Oft trying, still repining, wait Fierce Envy and calumnious Hate.

3 Who, then, from her delightful bounds Would step one moment forth to heed What impotent and savage sounds From their unhappy mouths proceed?

No: rather Spenser's lyre again Prepare, and let thy pious strain For Pope's dishonour'd shade complain.

4 Tell how displeased was every bard, When lately in the Elysian grove They of his Muse's guardian heard, His delegate to fame above; And what with one accord they said Of wit in drooping age misled, And Warburton's officious aid:

5 How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate To that melodious lyre a.s.sign'd, Beneath a tutor who so late With Midas and his rout combined By spiteful clamour to confound That very lyre's enchanting sound, Though listening realms admired around:

6 How Horace own'd he thought the fire Of his friend Pope's satiric line Did further fuel scarce require From such a militant divine: How Milton scorn'd the sophist vain, Who durst approach his hallow'd strain With unwash'd hands and lips profane.

7 Then Shakspeare debonair and mild Brought that strange comment forth to view; Conceits more deep, he said and smiled, Than his own fools or madmen knew: But thank'd a generous friend above, Who did with free adventurous love Such pageants from his tomb remove.

8 And if to Pope, in equal need, The same kind office thou wouldst pay, Then, Edwards, all the band decreed That future bards with frequent lay Should call on thy auspicious name, From each absurd intruder's claim To keep inviolate their fame.

ODE XI.

TO THE COUNTRY GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 1758.

1 Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled?