Imatges de pÓgina


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ODE to the Athenian Society.

Moor-Park, Feb. 14, 1691.

A Swhen the deluge first began to fall

, That mighty ebb never to flow again (When this huge body's moisture was so great,

It quite o'ercame the vital heat),
That mountain, which was highest first of all,
Appear'd above the universal main,
To bless the primitive failor's weary fight!
And 'twas perhaps Parnassus, if in height

It be as great as 'tis in fame,

And nigh to heaven as is its name :
So, after th' inundation of war,
When learning's little houshold did embark
With her world's fruitful fyftem in her facred

At the first ebb of noise and fears,
Philosophy's exalted head appears ;
And the dove-muse will now no longer stay,
But plumes her silver wings, and flies away;

And now a laurel wreath flte brings from far,
To crown the happy conqueror,

To shew the flood begins to cease, And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.

II. The

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The eager muse took wing upon the waves de

cline, When war her cloudy aspect just withdrew,

When the bright sun of peace began to shine, And for a while in heav'nly contemplation fat

On the high top of peaceful Ararat; And pluck'd a laurel branch (for laurel was the

first that grew,

The first of plants after the thunder, storm and

And thence, with joyful, nimble wing,

Flew dutifully back again,
And made an humble * chaplet for the king.

And the dove-muse is fled once more
(Glad of the victory, yet frighted at the war),

And now discovers from afar
A peaceful and a flourishing shore:

No sooner did she land

On the delightful strand,
Than straight she sees the country all around,

Where fatal Neptune rul'd erewhile,
Scatter'd with flow'ry vales, with fruitful gardens

And many a pleasant wood!

* The Ode I writ to the king in Ireland.

As if the universal Nile

Had rather water'd it than drown'd: It seems some floating piece of paradise,

Preserv'd by wonder from the flood, Long wand'ring through the deep, as we are


Fam'd Delos did of old,
And the transported muse imagin’d it
To be a fitter birth-place for the God of wit,

Or the much-talk'd oracular grove;
When with amazing joy she hears
An unknown mufick all around

Charming her greedy ears

With many a heavenly song Of nature and of art, of deep philosophy and

love, Whilst angels tune the voice, and God inspires

the tongue.

In vain she catches at the empty found, In vain pursues the musick with her longing

eye, And courts the wanton echoes as they fly.


Pardon, ye great unknown, and far-exalted men,
The wild excursions of a youthful pen ;

Forgive a young and (almost) virgin-muse,
Whom blind and eager curiosity


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