ODE

TO THE HONOURABLE

SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE.

Written at Moor-Park, June, 1689.
VIRTUE, the greatest of all monarchies !

Till, its first emperor rebellious man
Depos'd from off his seat,

It fell, and broke with its own weight
Into small states and principalities,

By many a petty lord possess'd,
But ne'er since seated in one single breast!
'Tis you who must this land subdue,
The mighty conquest 's left for you,
The conquest and discovery too;
Search out this Utopian ground,
Virtue's Terra Incognita,
Where none ever led the way.
Nor ever since but in descriptions found,
Like the philosopher's stone,

With rules to search it, yet obtain'd by none.

We have too long been led astray;

Too long have our misguided souls been taught
With rules from musty morals brought,
'Tis you must put us in the way;
Let us (for shame!) no more be fed
With antique reliques of the dead,

The gleanings of philosophy,

Philosophy, the lumber of the schools,
The roguery of alchemy;

For Learning's mighty treasures look

In that deep grave a book;

Think that she there does all her treasures hide, And that her troubled ghost still haunts there since

she dy'd.

Confine her walks to colleges and schools,

Her priests, her train, and followers shew
As if they all were spectres too!
They purchase knowledge at th' expense
Of common breeding, common sense,
And grow at once scholars and fools;
Affect ill-manner'd pedantry,

Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility,

And, sick with dregs of knowledge grown,
Which greedily they swallow down,

Still cast it up, and nauseate company.

Curst be the wretch! nay doubly curst!
(If it may lawful be

To curse our greatest enemy)
Who learnt himself that heresy first

(Which since has seiz'd on all the rest)
That knowledge forfeits all humanity;
Taught us, like Spaniards to be proud and poor,

And fling our scraps before our door! Thrice happy you have 'scap'd this general pest; Those mighty epithets, learn'd, good, and great, Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances meet, We find in you at last united grown.

You cannot be compar'd to one :

I must, like him that painted Venus' face,
Borrow from every one a grace;
Virgil and Epicurus will not do,

Their courting a retreat like you,
Unless I put in Cæsar's learning too;

Your happy frame at once controls
This great triumvirate of souls.
Let not old Rome boast Fabius' fate;
He sav'd his country by delays,
But you by peace.
You bought it at a cheaper rate;
Nor has it left the usual bloody scar,

To show it cost its price in war;

War! that mad game the world so loves to play,

And for it does so dearly pay;

For, though with loss or victory a while

Fortune the gamesters does beguile, Yet at the last the box sweeps all away.

Only the laurel got by peace

No thunder e'er can blast:
Th' artillery of the skies

Shoots to the Earth, and dies;

Nor ever green and flourishing 'twill last, [cries. Nor dipt in blood, nor widows' tears, nor ophans' About the head crown'd with these bays, Like lambent fire the lightning plays:

Nor, its triumphal cavalcade to grace,

Makes up its solemn train with death;

It melts the sword of war, yet keeps it in the sheath.

Th' wily shifts of state, those jugglers' tricks,
Which we call deep designs and politics
(As in a theatre the ignorant fry,

Because the cords escape their eye,

Wonder to see the motions fly);
Methinks, when you expose the scene,
Down the ill-organ'd engines fall;
Off fly the vizards, and discover all :

How plam I see through the deceit !
How shallow, and how gross, the cheat!
Look where the pully's tied above!
Great God! (said I) what have I seen!
On what poor engines move

The thoughts of monarchs, and designs of states!
What petty motives rule their fates!

How the mouse makes the mighty mountain shake!
The mighty mountain labours with its birth,
Away the frighten'd peasants fly,
Scar'd at th' unheard-of prodigy,
Expect some great gigantic son of Earth;

Lo! it appears!

See how they tremble; how they quake!

Out starts the little beast, and mocks their idle fears.

Then tell, dear favourite Muse!

What serpent 's that which still resorts,

Still hurks in palaces and courts?

Take thy unwonted flight,

And on the terrace light.

See where she lies!

See how she rears her head,

And rolls about her dreadful eyes,
To drive all virtue out, or look it dead!
'Twas sure this basilisk sent Temple thence,
And though as some ('tis said) for their defence
Have worn a casement o'er their skin,
So he wore his within,

Made up of virtue and transparent innocence;
And though he oft renew'd the fight,
And almost got priority of sight,

He ne'er could overcome her quite (In pieces cut, the viper still did re-unite),

Till, at last, tir'd with loss of time and ease, Resolv'd to give himself, as well as country, peace. Sing, belov'd Muse! the pleasures of retreat, And in some untouch'd virgin strain Show the delights thy sister Nature yields; Sing of thy vales, sing of thy woods, sing of thy Go publish o'er the plain [fields;

How mighty a proselyte you gain!

How noble a reprisal on the great!

How is the Muse luxuriant grown!

Whene'er she takes this fight,
She soars clear out of sight.

These are the paradises of her own:
(The Pegasus, like an unruly horse,
Though ne'er so gently led
To the lov'd pasture where he us'd to feed,
Runs violently o'er his usual course.)
Wake from thy wanton dreams,

Come from thy dear-lov'd streams,
The crooked paths of wandering Thames!
Fain the fair nymph would stay,
Oft' she looks back in vain,
Oft' 'gainst her fountain does complain,

And softly steals in inany windings down, As loth to see the hated court and town, And murmurs as she glides away.

In this new happy scene

Are nobler subjects for your learned pen;
Here we expect from you

More than your predecessor Adam knew;
Whatever moves our wonder, or our sport,
Whatever serves for innocent emblems of the court;
How that which we a kernel see

(Whose well-compacted forms escape the light, Unpierc'd by the blunt rays of sight)

Shall ere long grow into a tree;

Whence takes it its increase, and whence its birth,
Or from the sun, or from the air, or from the earth,
Where all the fruitful atoms lie;

How some go downward to the root,
Some more ambitious upwards fly,

And form the leaves, the branches, and the fruit,
You strove to cultivate a barren court in vain,
Your garden 's better worth your noble pain,
Here mankind fell, and hence must rise again.

Shall I believe a spirit so divine

Was cast in the same mould with mine? Why then does Nature so unjustly share Among her elder sons the whole estate,

And all her jewels and her plate?
Poor we! cadets of Heaven, not worth her care,
Take up at best with lumber and the leavings of a
fare:

Some she binds 'prentice to the spade,
Some to the drudgery of a trade.

Some she does to Egyptian bondage draw,
Bids us make bricks, yet sends us to look out for
Some she condemns for life to try

[straw:

To dig the leaden mines of deep philosophy:
Me she has to the Muse's gallies tied,
In vain I strive to cross this spacious main,
In vain I tug and pull the oar,

And, when I almost reach the shore,
Straight the Muse turns the helm, and I lanch out
And yet, to feed my pride,
[again :
Whene'er I mourn, stops my complaining breath,
With promise of a mad reversion after death.

Then, sir, accept this worthless verse,
The tribute of an humble Muse,
'Tis all the portion of my niggard stars;
Nature the hidden spark did at my birth infuse,
And kindled first with indolence and ease;

And, since too oft debauch'd by praise,
Tis now grown an incurable disease:
In vain to quench this foolish fire I try
In wisdom and philosophy;

In vain all wholesome herbs I sow, Where nought but weeds will grow. Whate'er I plant (like corn on barren earth) By an equivocal birth

Seeds, and runs up to poetry.

France does in vain her feeble arts apply,

To interrupt the fortune of your course: Your influence does the vain attacks defy Of secret malice, or of open force. Boldly we hence the brave commencement date Of glorious deeds, that must all tongues employ : William 's the pledge and earnest given by fate Of England's glory, and her lasting joy.

ODE

TO KING WILLIAM',

ON HIS SUCCESSES IN IRELAND.

To purchase kingdoms, and to buy renown,
Are arts peculiar to dissembling France;
You, mighty monarch, nobler actions crown,
And solid virtue does your name advance,
Your matchless courage with your prudence joins,
The glorious structure of your fame to raise ;
With its own light your dazzling glory shines,
And into adoration turns our praise.

Had you by dull succession gain'd your crown
(Cowards are monarchs by that title made),
Part of your merit Chance would call her own,
And half your virtues had been lost in shade.
But now your worth its just reward shall have:
What trophies and what triumphs are your due ;
Who could so well a dying nation save,

At once deserve a crown and gain it too!
You saw how near we were to ruin brought,
You saw th' impetuous torrent rolling on;
And timely on the coining danger thought,
Which we could neither obviate, nor shun.
Britannia stript from her sole guard the laws,
Ready to fall Rome's bloody sacrifice;
You straight stept in, and from the monster's jaws
Did bravely snatch the lovely, helpless prize.
Nor this is all; as glorious is the care

To preserve conquests, as at first to gain : In this your virtue claims a double share, Which what it bravely won, does well maintain. Your arm has now your rightful title show'd,

An arm on which all Europe's hopes depend, To which they look as to some guardian God, That must their doubtful liberty defend. Amaz'd, thy action at the Boyne we see! When Schomberg started at the vast design:

[thine.

The boundless glory all redounds to thee,
Th' impulse, the fight, th' event, were wholly
The brave attempt does all our foes disarm;

You need but now give orders and command, Your name shall the remaining work perform, And spare the labour of your conquering hand.

1 With much pleasure I here present to the public an ode which had been long sought after withont success. That it is Swift's, I have not the least doubt; and it is more curious, as being the second poem that he wrote. He refers to it in the second stanza of his Ode to the Athenian Society, and expressly marks it by a marginal note, under the title of The Ode I writ to the King in Ireland. See, also, The Gentleman's Journal, July, 1629. p. 13. N. VOL. XI.

ODE

ΤΟ ΤΗΣ

ATHENIAN SOCIETY.

Moor-Park, Feb. 14, 1691.

As when 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 nountain which was highest, first of all
Appear'd above the universal main,
To bless the primitive sailor's weary sight!
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 a war,

When Learning's little houshold did embark
With her world's fruitful system in her sacred ark,
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 she brings from far,
To crown the happy conqueror,
To show the flood begins to cease,

And brings the dear reward of victory and peace.

The eager Muse took wing upon the wave's decline, When War her cloudy aspect just withdrew, When the bright sun of Peace began to shine, And for a while in heavenly contemplation sat

On the high top of peaceful Ararat; [that grew, And pluck'd a laurel branch (for laurel was the first The first of plants after the thunder, storm, and And thence, with joyful nimble wing, [rain); Flew dutifully back again,

And made an humble chaplet for the king 1.
And the Dove-Muse is fled once more

(Glad of the victory, yet frighten'd 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 fata! Neptune rul'd erewhile, Scatter'd with flowery vales, with fruitful gardens And many a pleasant wood! [crown'd, 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 wandering through the deep, as, we are told, Fam'd Delos did of old,

1 The ode I writ to the king in Ireland. Swift.

Bb