§ 218. An Ode to the Right Honourable Lord | JOHN GOWER. Written in the Spring of 1716. FENTON.

O'ER Winter's long inclement fway

At length the lufty Spring prevails;
1. And, fwift to meet the finiling May,
Is wafted by the western gales.
Around him dance the rofy hours,
And damasking the ground with flow'rs,
With ambient fweets perfume the morn:
With fhadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A fudden youth the groves enjoy;
Where Philomel laments forlorn.

By her awak'd, the woodland choir
To hail the coming god prepares;
And tempts me to refume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal airs.

Yet once more, O ye Mufes! deign
For me, the meanest of your train,
Unblam'd t' approach your bleft retreat:
Where Horace wantons at your fpring,
And Pindar fweeps a bolder ftring;
Whofe notes th' Aonian hills repeat.

Or if invok'd, where Thames's fruitful tides,
Slow through the vale in filver volumes play;
Now your own Phoebus o'er the month prefides,
Gives Love the night, and doubly gilds the day:
Thither, indulgent to my pray'r,

Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair,
To fwell the notes I feebly raife:
So, with infpiring ardours warm'd,
May Gower's propitious ear he charm'd,
To listen to my lays.
Beneath the Pole, on hills of fnow,
Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede
To dint of fword defies the foe;
In fight unknowing to recede:
From Volga's banks th' imperious Czar
Leads forth his furry troops to war;
Fond of the fofter fouthern fky:
The Soldan gauls th' Illyrian coaft;
But foon the mifcreant moony host
Before the victor-crofs fhall fly.

But here no clarion's fhrilling note
The Mufe's green retreat can pierce ;
The grove, from noify camps remote,
Is only vocal with my verfe;
Here, wing'd with innocence and joy,
Let the foft hours that o'er me fly
Drop freedom, health, and gay defires:
While the bright Seine, t'exalt the foul,
With fparkling plenty crowns the bowl,
And wit and focial mirth infpires.

Enamour'd of the Seine, celeftial fair,
The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caus'd his care,
Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain;

There, fecret in her fapphire cell,
He with the Naiads wont to dwell;
Leaving the nectar'd feafts of Jove:
And where her mazy waters flow,
He gave the mantling vine to grow,
A trophy to his love.

Shall man from Nature's fanction stray,
With blind Opinion for his guide;
And, rebel to her rightful fway,
Leave all her bounties unenjoy'd?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows;
With equal fpeed the torrent flows,
To fweep Fame, Pow'r, and Wealth away:
The paft is all by Death poffefs'd;
And frugal Fate that guards the rest,
By giving, bids him live to-day.

O Gower! through all that deftin'd space
What breath the pow'rs allot to me,
Shall fing the virtues of thy race
United and complete in thee.

O flow'r of ancient English faith,
Purfue th' unbeaten patriot-path,
In which confirm'd thy father fhone:
The light his fair example gives
Already from thy dawn receives
A luftre equal to its own.

And Nature is their object to be drawn ; The written picture we applaud or blame But as the just proportions are the fame. Who, driven with ungovernable fire, Or void of art, beyond thefe bounds afpire, Gigantic forms and monftrous births alone Produce, which Nature fhock'd difdains to own. By true reflection I would fee my face, Why brings the fool a magnifying glass? "But poetry in fiction takes delight, "And mounting in bold figures out of fight, “Leaves Truth behind in her audacious flight: "Fables and metaphors, that always lyc, "And rath hyperboles that foar fo high, "And ev'ry ornament of verfe muft die." Mistake me not: no figures 1 exclude, And but forbid intemperance, not food.

Who would with care fome happy fiction flame, So mimics truth, it looks the very fame;

Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's fcorn,
But meant to grace, illuftrate, and adorn.
Important truths ftill let your fables hold,
And moral myfteries with art unfold:
Ladies and beaux to pleafe, is all the task;
But the fharp critic will inftruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear, when right applied;
When through the phrafe we plainly fee the fenfe,
Truth with fuch obvious meanings will difpenfe.
The reader what in reafon's due believes,
Nor can we call that falfe which not deceives:
Hyperboles fo daring and fo bold,
Difdaining bounds, are yet by rules controul'd;
Above the clouds, but yet within our sight,
They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring
Prefenting things impoffible to view, [flight,

They war.ler through incredible to true:
Falfehcods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd;
And truth, like filver, leaves the drofs behind.
Thus Poetry has ample space to foar,
Nor needs forbidden legions to explore;
Such vaunts as his who can with patience read,
Who thus defcribes his hero when he's dead—
"In heat of action flain, yet scorns to fall,
"But still maintains the war, and fights at-All?"
The noify culverin, o'er-charg'd, lets fly,
And burfts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And Nature fuffers in the wild extreme.
The captive cannibal, oppreft with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, difdains;
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
He bids defiance to the gaping crowd;
And spent at laft, and fpeechlefs, as he lies,
With fiery glances mocks their rage, and dies.
This is the utmost stretch that Nature can,
And all beyond is fulfome, falfe, and vain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different fides,
I would condemn, but that, in fpite of fenfe,
Th' admiring world ftill ftands in his defence:
The gods permitting traitors to fucceed,
Become not parties in an impious decd;
And, by the tyrant's murder, we may find
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with fuch prepoft'rous praise,
Our characters we leffen when we'd raife;
Like caftles built by magic art in air,
That vanish at approach, fuch thoughts appear;
But, rais'd on truth by fome judicious hand,
As on a rock they fhall for ages ftand.
Our king return'd, and banish'd peace reftor'd,
The Mufe ran mad to fee her exil d lord;
On the crack'd ftage the Bedlam heroes roar'd,
And fcarce could fpeak one reasonable word:
Dryden himself, to pleafe a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgment ftoop to rage;
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Complied to cuftom, but not err'd through choice.
Deem then the people's, not the writer's fin,
Almanfor's rage, and rants of Maximin;

That fury spent in each elaborate piece,
He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Rofcommon first, then Mulgrave rose, like light,
To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight;
With fteady judgment, and in lofty founds,
They gave us patterns, and they fet us bounds,
The Stagyrite and Horace laid afide,
Inform'd by them, we need no foreign guide;
Who feek from poetry a lafting name,
May from their leffons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be fure
That ev'ry line the test of truth endure;
On this foundation may the fabric rife
Firm and unfhaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from love,
Abandon'd Truth feeks fhelter in the grove;
Cherish, ye Mufes, the forsaken fair,
And take into your train this beauteous wanderer,

'TIS done-reftor'd by thy immortal pen, The critic's noble name revives again; Once more that great, that injur'd name we fee Shine forth alike in Addifon and thee.

Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feaft,
And feed on scraps refus'd by ev'ry gueft;
From the old Thracian dog they learn'd the way
To fnarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey.
As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they
feel,

Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will,
Such their inverted tafte, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell fnake rejects the fragrant flow'rs,
In ev'ry poifon of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's flame;
With his, your gen'rous raptures ftill afpire;
The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.
But when fome lame, fome limping line demands
The friendly fuccour of your healing hands;
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we furvey,
We stand all dazzled with excess of day,
Blind with the glorious blaze-to vulgar fight
'Twas one bright mafs of undiftinguith'd light;
But, like the tow'ring eagle, you alone
Difcern'd the spots and fplendors of the fun.

To point out faults, yet never to offend;
To play the critic, yet preferve the friend;
A life well fpent, that never loft a day;
An eafy fpirit, innocently gay;
A ftrict integrity, devoid of art;

The sweetest manners, and fincereft heart;
A foul, where depth of fenfe and fancy meet;
A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit→
Were ever yours: be what you were before,
Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.

$221. TO thee, fair Freedom! I retire

On Freedom. Written at an Inn,

From flatt'ry, cards and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in manfions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign;
And ev'ry health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champaign;
Such Freedom crowns it at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate!

I fly from falfehood's fpecious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate;

And choose my lodgings at an inn.

Here, waiter! take my fordid ore,

Which lacqueys elfe might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in ftore,
It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his ftages may have been;
May figh to think he ftill has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.

$222. The Pious Sailor. An Ode, THE man whofe heart from vice is clear, Whofe deeds are honeft, true, fincere, Whom God and virtue guide; With cautious circumfpection wife, The dang 'rous wrecks of life defies, And stems the mighty tide, He hears the storms of fortune rife, In adverse combat midst the skies, But hears without dismay; His pilot, God, the veffel guides, And o'er the fteady helm prefides, And points the deftin'd way.

In vain the Syrens tune the fong
With treach'rous mufic's luring tongue;
He ftill maintains his road:

In vain they glance their beck'ning guiles,
Destructive charms, and wanton wiles;
His foul is fix'd-on God.

At length he kens the promis'd land,
And hails aloud the with'd for strand,
With heavenly joy poffeft;
And 'midft the plenty of his ftore,
His labour paft, his toil no more,
Enjoys the port of rest.

$223. The Enquiry. Written in the laft Century. AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,

Love and my fighs thus intertalk'd:

Tell me, faid I, in deep diftrefs, Where may I find my thepherdefs>' "Thou fool, faid Love, know'ft thou not this?.. "In ev'ry thing that's good, the is; "In yonder tulip go and feek,

"There thou may ft find her lip, her cheek;
"In yond enamell'd panfy by,

"There thou fhalt have her curious eye;
"In bloom of peach, in rofy bud,
"There weave the ftreamers of her blood;
"In brighteft lilies that there ftand,
"The emblems of her whiter hand;
"In yonder rifing hill there fmell
"Such fweets as in her bofom dwell:
"'Tis true," faid he. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a fudden all was gone.

With that I ftopt. Said Love, "These be,
"Fond man, efemblances of thee;
"And as thefe flow'rs thy joys fhall die,

"E'en in the twinkling of an eye;

"And all thy hopes of her fhall wither, "Like thefe short fweets that knit together."

ELEGANT