Anacreon Ode
*Dorian Ode or Choric Ode/Pindaric Ode
*
Cowleyan Pindaric Ode
Epinicion Ode
*Epithalamion Ode
*Horatian Ode
Homostrophic Ode
Irregular Ode
Prothalamion Ode
*The links on this blog-list point to the topics previously discussed. If you wish to review those topics, simply click on the asterisk. Any discussion on odes is bound to cross paths with Thomas Gray who was born on Boxing Day of 1716 in Cornhill, London, England. This 18th Century English poet died at the age of 55 years on July 30, 1771. Thomas Gray began seriously writing poems has history says in 1742, and was also known as one of the
"Graveyard poets" of the late 1700s. Though Pindaric meter was perceived as being better understood in the 18th Century, Pindaric odes lost their popularity. However, the 18th Century poet, Thomas Gray brought them back to the fore in his "genuine" Pindaric odes as seen in
"The Bard" and
"The Progress of Poesy" for which he considered his best works. Meanwhile the Cowleyan Pindaric style was revived around 1800 by William Wordsworth in one of his finest odes,
"Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood". Now, turning the spotlight back on Thomas Gray it must be known that having read the odes he considered his best works, I boldly share with you that their rhyme schemes truly reflect the structure of Pindaric odes. So here are the things I have found:
In the ode,
"The Progress of Poesy" Gray used this rhyme schemes:
abbaccddeeff abbaccddeeff aabbaccdedefafagg abbaccddeeff abbaccddeeff aabbaccdedefgfghh abbaccddeeff abbaccddeeff aabbaccdedefgfghh. Take a look.
The Progress of Poesy1.1
Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
aAnd give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
bFrom Helicon's harmonious springs
bA thousand rills their mazy progress take:
aThe laughing flowers that round them blow
cDrink life and fragrance as they flow.
cNow the rich stream of Music winds along,
dDeep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
dThro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
eNow rolling down the steep amain,
eHeadlong, impetuous, see it pour;
fThe rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
f1.2
Oh! Sov'reign of the willing soul,
aParent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
bEnchanting shell! the sullen Cares
b And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
aOn Thracia's hills the Lord of War
cHas curbed the fury of his car,
cAnd dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
dPerching on the sceptred hand
dOf Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
eWith ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
eQuenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
fThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
f1.3
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
aTempered to thy warbled lay.
aO'er Idalia's velvet-green
bThe rosy-crowned Loves are seen
bOn Cytherea's day,
aWith antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
cFrisking light in frolic measures;
cNow pursuing, now retreating,
dNow in circling troops they meet:
eTo brisk notes in cadence beating
dGlance their many-twinkling feet.
eSlow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
fWhere'er she turns the Graces homage pay.
aWith arms sublime that float upon the air
fIn gliding state she wins her easy way:
aO'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
gThe bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
g2.1
Man's feeble race what ills await!
aLabour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
bDisease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
bAnd Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
aThe fond complaint, my song, disprove,
cAnd justify the laws of Jove.
cSay, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?
dNight and all her sickly dews,
dHer sceptres wan, and birds of boding cry,
eHe gives to range the dreary sky;
eTill down the eastern cliffs afar
fHyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.
f2.2
In climes beyond the solar road,
aWhere shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
bThe Muse has broke the twilight gloom
bTo cheer the shivering Native's dull abode.
a And oft, beneath the od'rous shade
cOf Chili's boundless forests laid,
cShe deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,
dIn loose numbers wildly sweet,
dTheir feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
eHer track, where'er the Goddess roves,
eGlory pursue, and gen'rous Shame,
fTh' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
f2.3
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
aIsles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
aFields that cool Ilissus laves,
bOr where Maeander's amber waves
bIn lingering lab'rinths creep,
aHow do your tuneful echoes languish,
cMute, but to the voice of anguish!
cWhere each old poetic mountain
dInspiration breathed around;
eEv'ry shade and hallowed fountain
dMurmured deep a solemn sound:
eTill the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
fLeft their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
gAlike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
fAnd coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
gWhen Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
hThey sought, Oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
h3.1
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
aIn thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
bWhat time, where lucid Avon strayed,
bTo him the mighty mother did unveil
aHer awful face: the dauntless child
cStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
c"This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
dRichly paint the vernal year:
dThine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
eThis can unlock the gates of Joy;
eOf Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
fOr ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears."
f 3.2
Nor second he, that rode sublime
aUpon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
bThe secrets of th' Abyss to spy.
bHe passed the flaming bounds of place and time:
aThe living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,
c Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
cHe saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
dClosed his eyes in endless night.
dBehold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
eWide o'er the fields of glory bear
eTwo coursers of ethereal race,
f With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
f3.3
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
aBright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
aScatters from her pictured urn
bThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
bBut ah! 'tis heard no more—
aOh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
cWakes thee now? Though he inherit
cNor the pride, nor ample pinion,
dThat the Theban eagle bear,
eSailing with supreme dominion
dThrough the azure deep of air:
eYet oft before his infant eyes would run
fSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,
gWith orient hues, unborrowed of the Sun:
fYet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
gBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
hBeneath the Good how far - but far above the Great.
hIn the formation of
"The Bard", Gray used this rhyme scheme:
ababccddefefgg ababccddefefgg abcbacdeedfdfdghfhii ababccddefefgg ababccddefefgg abcdacdeedfgfghghfii ababccddefefgg ababcceebfbfgg abcbdceffeghihjkfkll. Take a look.
The Bard1.1
'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
aConfusion on thy banners wait,
bTho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
aThey mock the air with idle state.
bHelm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,
cNor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
cTo save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
dFrom Cambria'sÊ curse, from Cambria's tears!'
dSuch were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
eOf the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
f As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
eHe wound with toilsome march his long array.
fStout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
g'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.
gI.2
On a rock, whose haughty brow
aFrowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
bRobed in the sable garb of woe,
aWith haggard eyes the Poet stood;
b(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
cStream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
cAnd with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire,
dStruck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
d'Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,
eSighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
fO'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
eRevenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breath;
f Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
gTo high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
gI.3
Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
aThat hush'd the stormy main:
bBrave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
cMountains, ye mourn in vain
bModred, whose magic song
aMade huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
cOn dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
d Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:
eFar, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
eThe famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.
dDear lost companions of my tuneful art,
fDear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,
dDear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
fYe died amidst your country's cries--
dNo more I weep. They do not sleep.
gOn yonder cliffs, a griesly band,
hI see them sit, they linger yet,
fAvengers of their native land:
hWith me in dreadful harmony they join,
iAnd weave with bloody hands, the tissue of thy line.'
i II.1
'Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
aThe winding-sheet of Edward's race.
bGive ample room, and verge enough
aThe characters of hell to trace.
bMark the year, and mark the night,
c When Severn shall re-eccho with affright
cThe shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
dShrieks of an agonizing King!
dShe-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
e That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
fFrom thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
eThe scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!
fAmazement in his van, with Flight combined,
gAnd Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
gII.2
Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
aLow on his funeral couch he lies!
bNo pitying heart, no eye, afford
aA tear to grace his obsequies.
bIs the sable Warriour fled?
cThy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
cThe Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
dGone to salute the rising Morn.
dFair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
eWhile proudly riding o'er the azure realm
fIn gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;
eYouth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
fRegardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
gThat, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey.
gII.3
Fill high the sparkling bowl,
aThe rich repast prepare,
bReft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
cClose by the regal chair
bFell Thirst and Famine scowl
a A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest.
cHeard ye the din of battle bray,
dLance to lance, and horse to horse?
eLong Years of havock urge their destined course,
eAnd thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
dYe Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
fWith many a foul and midnight murther fed,
gRevere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
fAnd spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
gAbove, below, the rose of snow,
hTwined with her blushing foe,Ê we spread:
gThe bristled Boar in infant-gore
hWallows beneath the thorny shade.
fNow, Brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom
iStamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
iIII.1
Edward, lo! to sudden fate
a(Weave the woof. The thread is spun)
bHalf of thy heart we consecrate.
a(The web is wove. The work is done.)'
b'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn
cLeave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
cIn yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
dThey melt, they vanish from my eyes.
dBut oh! what solemn scenes on Snowden's height
eDescending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
fVisions of glory, spare my aching sight,
eYe unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!
fNo more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
gAll-hail, ye genuine Kings, Brittania's Issue, hail!
gIII.2
Girt with many a Baron bold
aSublime their starry fronts they rear;
bAnd gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
aIn bearded majesty, appear.
bIn the midst a Form divine!
cHer eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
cHer lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
eAttemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
eWhat strings symphonious tremble in the air,
b What strains of vocal transport round her play!
fHear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
bThey breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
fBright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
gWaves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.
gIII.3
The verse adorn again
aFierce War, and faithful Love,
bAnd Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
cIn buskin'd measures move
bPale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
dWith Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
cA Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
eGales from blooming Eden bear;
fAnd distant warblings lessen on my ear,
fThat lost in long futurity expire.
eFond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud,
gRais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
hTo-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
iAnd warms the nations with redoubled ray.
hEnough for me: With joy I see
jThe different doom our Fates assign.
kBe thine Despair, and scept'red Care,
fTo triumph, and to die, are mine.'
kHe spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
l Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.
lIt was widely felt during that period that Cowleyan Pindaric odes were birth from a misunderstanding of Pindar's metrical rules but John Dryden found much favor with them. John Dryden was from the county of Northamptonshire. Permit me to change gears a bit as my mind recalls the many months I have spent in Northamptonshire during the period of the
Gulf War dubbed
"Operation Desert Shield". I was elated when in my temporary home located in that county where Dryden was born I heard over televised news that President George H. W. Bush had achieved the war objectives against Saddam Hussein of Iraq. Saddam agreed to the cease fire and would mend his ways but he closed his televised remarks with these words, "my tail has been badly bruised but not my head" and with that remark attributed to Saddam Hussein my gut feeling was that Saddam Hussein had not changed his ways, but would take the time to lick his wounds and come back on the scene with acts more dreadful than before. Never thought though that President George W Bush, son of President George H. W. Bush would take up the struggle from where his father left off and that's another sad story in the archives for the 21st Century.
Now, As I was saying, the established fact is that John Dryden widely imitated with notable success the principles of the Cowleyan Pindaric odes in his own poetry. Here I cite three of his odes which support my contention:
"The Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687",
"An Ode, on the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell" and
"To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady,Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting".
This rhyme scheme:
abcdefefcdABAbb aabacaAaA ababcddb abba abbba aabcbc aabbcbc ababccddd has given shape to the
"The Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687". Take a look.
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687
Stanza 1
From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony
a This universal frame began.
bWhen Nature underneath a heap
cOf jarring atoms lay,
dAnd could not heave her head,
eThe tuneful voice was heard from high,
f Arise ye more than dead.
eThen cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
fIn order to their stations leap,
cAnd music's pow'r obey.
dFrom harmony, from Heav'nly harmony
AThis universal frame began:
BFrom harmony to harmony
AThrough all the compass of the notes it ran,
bThe diapason closing full in man.
bStanza 2
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
aWhen Jubal struck the corded shell,
aHis list'ning brethren stood around
bAnd wond'ring, on their faces fell
aTo worship that celestial sound:
cLess than a god they thought there could not dwell
aWithin the hollow of that shell
AThat spoke so sweetly and so well.
aWhat passion cannot music raise and quell!
AStanza 3
The trumpet's loud clangor
aExcites us to arms
bWith shrill notes of anger
aAnd mortal alarms.
bThe double double double beat
cOf the thund'ring drum
dCries, hark the foes come;
dCharge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.
bStanza 4
The soft complaining flute
aIn dying notes discovers
bThe woes of hopeless lovers,
b Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
aStanza 5
Sharp violins proclaim
aTheir jealous pangs, and desperation,
bFury, frantic indignation,
bDepth of pains and height of passion,
bFor the fair, disdainful dame.
aStanza 6
But oh! what art can teach
aWhat human voice can reach
aThe sacred organ's praise?
bNotes inspiring holy love,
cNotes that wing their Heav'nly ways
bTo mend the choirs above.
cStanza 7
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
aAnd trees unrooted left their place;
aSequacious of the lyre:
bBut bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder high'r;
bWhen to her organ, vocal breath was giv'n,
cAn angel heard, and straight appear'd
bMistaking earth for Heav'n.
c GRAND CHORUS
As from the pow'r of sacred lays
aThe spheres began to move,
bAnd sung the great Creator's praise
aTo all the bless'd above;
bSo when the last and dreadful hour
c This crumbling pageant shall devour,
cThe trumpet shall be heard on high,
dThe dead shall live, the living die,
dAnd music shall untune the sky.
dThis rhyme scheme:
abbacdccad aabBcbdeedfef aabbccdd is associated with "An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell". Go and take a look.
An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry PurcellLate Servant to his Majesty, and Organist of the Chapel Royal,
and of St. Peter's Westminster
I
Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing,
aWith rival Notes
bThey strain their warbling Throats,
bTo welcome in the Spring.
aBut in the close of Night,
cWhen Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay,
dThey cease their mutual spite,
cDrink in her Music with delight,
c
And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning,
aAnd list'ning and silent obey.
d
II
So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came,
aThey Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
aStruck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man,
bThe God-like Man,
BAlas, too soon retir'd,
cAs He too late began.
bWe beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore,
dHad He been there,
e
Their Sovereign's fear
eHad sent Him back before.
dThe pow'r of Harmony too well they know,
fHe long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere,
eAnd left no Hell below.
f
III
The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high,
aLet down the Scale of Music from the Sky:
aThey handed him along,
bAnd all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
bYe Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice,
cLament his Lot: but at your own rejoice.
cNow live secure and linger out your days,
dThe Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays,
dNor know to mend their Choice.
cThis rhyme scheme:
aabcdcdeeddffgghihhi aabbccdedeeAeAaa aabbbAccAddefefgg aabbccdedeffggg abcbccdddeeeffgfg abbacccdeededbb abbccddeeffggeeeffgghhii aabbcccddeeffgghiihjjj aabbc abcdbeffdgg aabbccddeeAaaffggg appears in "To the Pious Memory of the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting". Take a look.
To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs Anne Killigrew,
Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting1
Thou youngest Virgin Daughter of the skies,
aMade in the last promotion of the blest;
bWhose palms, new-plucked from Paradise,
a
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
aRich with immortal green, above the rest:
bWhether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
cThou roll'st above us in thy wand'ring race,
dOr, in procession fixed and regular
cMoved with the heavens' majestic pace;
dOr, called to more superior bliss,
eThou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss:
eWhatever happy region be thy place,
dCease thy celestial song a little space;
d(Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
f
Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.)
f Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse
gIn no ignoble verse;
gBut such as thy own voice did practise here,
hWhen thy first fruits of poesie were given,
iTo make thyself a welcome inmate there;
hWhile yet a young probationer
hAnd candidate of Heaven.
i
2
If by traduction came thy mind,
aOur wonder is the less to find
aA soul so charming from a stock so good;
bThy father was transfused into thy blood:
bSo wert thou born into the tuneful strain,
c(An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.)
cBut if thy pre-existing soul
dWas formed, at first, with myriads more,
e
It did through all the mighty poets roll
dWho Greek or Latin laurels wore,
eAnd was that Sappho last, which once it was before;
eIf so, then cease thy flight, O Heav'n-born mind!
AThou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
eNor can thy soul a fairer mansion find
AThan was the beauteous frame she left behind:
aReturn, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.
a3
May we presume to say that at thy birth
aNew joy was sprung in Heav'n as well as here on earth?
aFor sure the milder planets did combine
bOn thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
bAnd ev'n the most malicious were in trine.
bThy brother-angels at thy birth
AStrung each his lyre, and tuned it high,
c
That all the people of the sky
cMight know a poetess was born on earth;
AAnd then if ever, mortal ears
dHad heard the music of the spheres!
dAnd if no clust'ring swarm of bees
eOn thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,
f'Twas that such vulgar miracles
eHeav'n had not leisure to renew:
fFor all the blest fraternity of love
gSolemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holyday above.
g4
O gracious God! how far have we
aProfaned thy Heav'nly gift of poesy!
aMade prostitute and profligate the Muse,
bDebased to each obscene and impious use,
bWhose harmony was first ordained above,
cFor tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
cOh wretched we! why were we hurried down
dThis lubrique and adult'rate age
e
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own)
dT' increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
eWhat can we say t' excuse our second fall?
fLet this thy vestal, Heav'n, atone for all:
f
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
ggUnmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;
gHer wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
g5
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
aFor nature did that want supply:
bSo rich in treasures of her own,
cShe might our boasted stores defy:
bSuch noble vigour did her verse adorn,
cThat it seemed borrowed, where 'twas only born.
cHer morals too were in her bosom bred
dBy great examples daily fed,
dWhat in the best of books, her father's life, she read.
dAnd to be read herself she need not fear;
eEach test and ev'ry light her muse will bear,
eThough Epictetus with his lamp were there.
eEv'n love (for love sometimes her muse expressed)
f
Was but a lambent-flame which played about her breast,
fLight as the vapours of a morning dream;
gSo cold herself, while she such warmth expressed,
f 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.
g6
Born to the spacious empire of the Nine,
aOne would have thought she should have been content
bTo manage well that mighty government;
bBut what can young ambitious souls confine?
aTo the next realm she stretched her sway,
cFor painture near adjoining lay,
cA plenteous province, and alluring prey.
c
A chamber of dependences was framed,
d(As conquerers will never want pretence,
e
When armed, to justify th' offence),
eAnd the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claimed.
dThe country open lay without defence;
eFor poets frequent inroads there had made,
dAnd perfectly could represent
bThe shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament;
b7
And all the large domains which the dumb-sister swayed,
a
All bowed beneath her government,
bReceived in triumph wheresoe'er she went.
bHer pencil drew whate'er her soul designed,
cAnd oft the happy draught surpassed the image in her mind.
cThe sylvan scenes of herds and flocks,
dAnd fruitful plains and barren rocks;
dOf shallow brooks that flowed so clear,
eThe bottom did the top appear;
eOf deeper too and ampler floods
f
Which as in mirrors showed the woods;
fOf lofty trees, with sacred shades,
gAnd perspectives of pleasant glades,
gWhere nymphs of brightest form appear,
eAnd shaggy satyrs standing near,
eWhich them at once admire and fear.
eThe ruins too of some majestic piece,
fBoasting the pow'r of ancient Rome or Greece,
fWhose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie,
gAnd, though defaced, the wonder of the eye;
gWhat nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame,
hHer forming hand gave feature to the name.
hSo strange a concourse ne'er was seen before,
iBut when the peopled ark the whole creation bore.
i
8
The scene then changed; with bold erected look
aOur martial king the sight with rev'rence strook:
a
For, not content t' express his outward part,
b
Her hand called out the image of his heart,
bHis warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear,
cHis high-designing thoughts were figured there,
cAs when, by magic, ghosts are made appear.
cOur phoenix Queen was portrayed too so bright,
dBeauty alone could beauty take so right:
dHer dress, her shape, her matchless grace,
eWere all observed, as well as heavenly face.
e
With such a peerless majesty she stands,
f
As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands:
fBefore a train of heroines was seen,
gIn beauty foremost, as in rank, the Queen!
gThus nothing to her genius was denied,
hBut like a ball of fire, the farther thrown,
iStill with a greater blaze she shone,
iAnd her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side.
hWhat next she had designed, Heaven only knows:
jTo such immod'rate growth her conquest rose,
jThat Fate alone its progress could oppose.
j9
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
a
That well-proportioned shape, and beauteous face,
aShall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
bIn earth the much-lamented virgin lies!
bNot wit nor piety could Fate prevent;
c10
Nor was the cruel destiny content
aTo finish all the murder at a blow,
bTo sweep at once her life and beauty too;
c
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
dTo work more mischievously slow,
bAnd plundered first, and then destroyed.
eO double sacrilege on things divine,
f
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
fBut thus Orinda died:
dHeaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
g
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
g11
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
aHis waving streamers to the winds displays,
bAnd vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
bAh, gen'rous youth! that wish forbear,
cThe winds too soon will waft thee here!
cSlack all thy sails, and fear to come,
d Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wrecked at home!
dNo more shalt thou behold thy sister's face,
eThou hast already had her last embrace.
e But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far
fAmong the Pleiads a new-kindled star,
fIf any sparkles than the rest more bright,
g'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
g12
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
a
To raise the nations underground;
aWhen in the valley of Jehosaphat
bThe judging God shall close the book of Fate;
bAnd there the last assizes keep
c
For those who wake and those who sleep;
cWhen rattling bones together fly
dFrom the four corners of the sky,
dWhen sinews o'er the skeletons are spread,
eThose clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
eThe sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
AAnd foremost from the tomb shall bound:
aFor they are covered with the lightest ground;
aAnd straight with in-born vigour, on the wing,
f
Like mounting larks, to the New Morning sing.
fThere thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go,
gAs harbinger of Heav'n, the way to show,
gThe way which thou so well hast learned below.
gWait for the continuation