Complete Works of Edward Young, page 59
I would proceed, but age has chill’d my vein,
’Twas a short fever, and I’m cool again.
Though life I hate, methinks I could renew
Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you.
When such the subject, who shall curb his flight?
When such your genius, who shall dare to write?
In pure respect, I give my rhyming o’er,
And, to commend you most, commend no more.
Adieu, whoe’er thou art! on death’s pale coast
Erelong I’ll talk thee o’er with Dryden’s ghost;
The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell!
Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell;
There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free,
And think of immortality and thee —
My strains are number’d by the tuneful Nine;
Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine.
VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE TO DR. YOUNG, NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP’S DEATH.68
Kind companion of my youth,
Lov’d for genius, worth, and truth!
Take what friendship can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart;
Take the muse’s latest spark,69
Ere we drop into the dark.
He, who parts and virtue gave,
Bad thee look beyond the grave
Genius soars, and virtue guides;
Above, the love of God presides.
There’s a gulf ‘twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy path be trod:
Why stand shivering on the shore?
Why not boldly venture o’er?
Where unerring virtue guides,
Let us have the winds and tides:
Safe, through seas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which virtue steers.
IMPERIUM PELAGI. A NAVAL LYRIC.
WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF PINDAR’S SPIRIT.
OCCASIONED BY HIS MAJESTY’S RETURN, SEPTEMBER 10TH.
1729, AND THE SUCCEEDING PEACE.
(Commonly called “The Treaty of Seville,” concluded December 9th, 1729, between the crowns of Great Britain, France, Spain, and the United Provinces.)
Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
Quem super notas alvere ripas,
Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo. — PINDARUS.
Concines lætosque dies, et urbis
Publicum ludum, super impetrato
Fortis Augnsti reditu. —
HORATII, Carm. Lib iv. Od ii.41
MDCCXXIX.
PREFACE.
A PINDARIC carries a formidable sound; but there is nothing formidable in the true nature of it, of which (with utmost submission) I conceive the critics have hitherto entertained a false idea. Pindar is as natural as Anacreon, though not so familiar; as a fixed star is as much in the bounds of nature as a flower of the field, though less obvious and of greater dignity. This is not the received notion of Pindar; I shall therefore soon support at large that hint which is now given.
Trade is a very noble subject in itself, more proper than any for an Englishman, and particularly seasonable at this juncture.
We have more specimens of good writing in every province than in the sublime; our two famous epic poems excepted. I was willing to make an attempt where I had fewest rivals.
If, on reading this Ode, any man has a fuller idea of the real interest or possible glory of his country than before, or a stronger impression from it, or a warmer concern for it, I give up to the critic any farther reputation.
We have many copies and translations that pass for originals. This Ode, I humbly conceive, is an original, though it professes imitation No man can be like Pindar by imitating any of his particular works, any more than like Raphael by copying the Cartoons. The genius and spirit of such great men must be collected from the whole; and when thus we are possessed of it, we must exert its energy in subjects and designs of our own. Nothing is so un- Pindarical as following Pindar on the foot. Pindar is an original; and he must be so, too, who would be like Pindar in that which is his greatest praise. Nothing so unlike as a close copy and a noble original.
As for length, Pindar has an unbroken Ode of six hundred lines. Nothing is long or short in writing but relatively to the demand of the subject and the manner of treating it. A distich may be long, and a folio short. However, I have broken this Ode into Strains, each of which may be considered as a separate Ode, if you please. And, if the variety and fulness of matter be considered, I am rather apprehensive of danger from brevity in this Ode than from length. But lank writing is what I think ought most to be declined, — if for nothing else, for our plenty of it.
The Ode is the most spirited kind of poetry, and the Pindaric is the most spirited kind of Ode: this I speak at my own very great peril; but truth has an eternal title to our confession, though we are sure to suffer by it.
THE MERCHANT. ODE THE FIRST.
ON THE BRITISH TRADE AND NAVIGATION.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF CHANDOS.
PRELUDE.
THE proposition. — An address to the vessel that brought over the king. — Who should sing on this occasion. — A Pindaric boast.
FAST by the surge my limbs are spread;
The naval oak nods o’er my head:
The winds are loud;’ the waves tumultuous roll.
Ye winds! indulge your rage no more;
Ye sounding billows! cease to roar:
The god descends, and transports warm my soul.
The waves are hush’d; the winds are spent: —
This kingdom, from the kingdoms rent,
I celebrate in song. — Famed isle! no less
By Nature’s favour from mankind,
Than by the foaming sea, disjoin’d;
Alone in bliss, an isle in happiness!
Though Fate and Time have damp’d my strains,
Though youth no longer fires my veins,
Though slow their streams in this cold climate run,
The royal eye dispels my cares,
Recalls the warmth of blooming years;
Returning George supplies the distant sun.
Away, my soul! salute the “Pine” (The vessel that brought over the king.)
That glads the heart of Caroline,
Its grand deposit faithful to restore;
Salute the bark that ne’er shall hold
So rich a freight in gems or gold,
And, loaded from both Indies, would be poor.
My soul! to thee she spreads her sails:
Their bosoms fill with sacred gales,
With inspiration from the godhead warm;
Now bound for an eternal clime,
Oh! send her down the tide of Time,
Snatch’d from oblivion, and secure from storm.
Or teach this flag like that to soar
Which gods of old and heroes bore;
Bid her a British constellation rise —
The sea she scorns, and now shall bound
On lofty billows of sweet sound;
I am her pilot, and her port the skies.
Dare you to sing, ye tinkling train?
Silence, ye wretched, ye profane,
Who shackle prose, and boast of absent gods;
Who murder thought, and numbers maim;
Who write Pindarics cold and lame,
And labour stiff Anacreontic Odes!
Ye lawful sons of genius, rise,
Of genuine title to the skies!
Ye founts of learning, and ye mints of fame!
You who file off the mortal part
Of glowing thought with Attic art,
And drink pure song from Cam’s or Isis’ stream.
I glow, I burn! The numbers pure,
High-flavour’d, delicate, mature,
Spontaneous stream from my unlabour’d breast;
As, when full-ripen’d teems the vine,
The generous bursts of willing wine
Distil nectareous from the grape unpress’d.
STRAIN THE FIRST.
THE ARGUMENT.
How the king attended. — A prospect of happiness. — Industry. A surprising instance of it in Old Rome. — The mischief of sloth. — What happiness is. Sloth its greatest enemy. — Trade natural to Britain. Trade invoked: described. — What the greatest human excellence. — The praise of wealth. Its use, abuse, end — The variety of nature. The final moral cause of it. — The benefit of man’s necessities. — Britain’s naval stores. She makes all nature serviceable to her ends. — Of reason. Its excellence. — How we should form our estimate of things. — Reason’s difficult task. Why the first glory hers. Her effects in Old Britain.
“OUR monarch comes! nor comes alone!”
What shining forms surround his throne,
O Sun, as planets thee! — To my loud strain
See Peace, by Wisdom led, advance;
The Grace, the Muse, the Season, dance;
And Plenty spreads behind her flowing train!
“Our monarch comes! nor comes alone!”
New glories kindle round his throne;
The visions rise; I triumph as I gaze;
By Pindar led, I turn’d of late
The volume dark, the folds of Fate,
And now am present to the future blaze.
By George and Jove it is decreed,
The mighty months in pomp proceed,
Fair daughters of the sun. — O thou Divine,
Bless’d Industry! a smiling earth
From thee alone derives its birth:
By thee the ploughshare and its master shine.
From thee mast, cable, anchor, oar,
From thee the cannon and his roar;
On oaks nursed, rear’d by thee, wealth, empire grows
O golden fruit! oak well might prove
The sacred tree, the tree of Jove;
All Jove can give, the naval oak bestows.
What cannot Industry complete?
When Punic war first flamed, the great,
Bold, active, ardent Roman fathers meet:
“Fell all your groves!” a Flamen cries;
As soon they fall, as soon they rise;
One moon a forest, and the next a fleet.
Is sloth indulgence. ’Tis a toil;
Enervates man, and damns the soil;
Defeats creation, plunges in distress,
Cankers our being, all devours.
A full exertion of our powers, —
Thence, and thence only, glows our happiness.
The stream may stagnate, yet be clear;
The sun suspend his swift career,
Yet healthy Nature feel her wonted force;
Ere man, his active springs resign’d,
Can rust in body and in mind,
Yet taste of bliss, of which he chokes the source.
Where, Industry, thy daughter fair?
Recall her to her native air:
Her was Trade born, here bred, here flourish’d long;
And ever shall she flourish here.
What, though she languish’d? ’twas but fear:
She’s sound of heart, her constitution strong.
Wake, sting her up! — Trade! lean no more
On thy fix’d anchor; push from shore:
Earth lies before thee; every climate court.
And see, she’s roused, absolved from fears,
Her brow in cloudless azure rears,
Spreads all her sail, and opens every port.
See, cherish’d by her sister, Peace,
She levies gain on every place,
Religion, habit, custom, tongue, and name.
Again she travels with the sun,
Again she draws a golden zone
Round earth and main, — bright zone of wealth and fame!
Ten thousand active hands — that hung
In shameful sloth, with nerves unstrung,
The nation’s languid load — defy the storms,
The sheets unfurl, and anchors weigh,
The long-moor’d vessel wing to sea;
Worlds, worlds salute, and peopled ocean swarms.
His sons, Po, Ganges, Danube, Nile,
Their sedgy foreheads lift, and smile;
Their urns inverted prodigally pour
Streams charged with wealth, and vow to buy
Britannia for their great ally
With climes paid down: what can the gods do more?
Cold Russia costly furs from far,
Hot China sends her painted jar,
France generous wines to crown it: Arab sweet
With gales of incense swells our sails;
Nor distant Ind our merchant fails,
Her richest ore the ballast of our fleet.
Luxuriant isle! what tide that flows,
Or stream that glides, or wind that blows,
Or genial sun that shines, or shower that pours,
But flows, glides, breathes, shines, pours for thee?
How every heart dilates to see
Each land’s each season blending on thy shores!
All these one British harvest make!
The servant Ocean for thy sake
Both sinks and swells: his arms thy bosom wrap,
And fondly give, in boundless dower
To mighty George’s growing power,
The wafted world into thy loaded lap.
Commerce brings riches; riches crown
Fair Virtue with the first renown.
A large revenue, and a large expense,
When hearts for others’ welfare glow,
And spend as free as gods bestow,
Gives the full bloom to mortal excellence.
Glow, then, my breast; abound, my store!
This, and this boldly, I implore;
Their want and apathy let Stoics boast.
Passions and riches, good or ill,
As used by man, demand our skill:
All blessings wound us, when discretion’s lost.
Wealth, in the virtuous and the wise,
’Tis vice and folly to despise:
Let those in praise of poverty refine
Whose heads or hearts pervert its use,
The narrow-soul’d or the profuse:
The truly great find morals in the mine.
Happy the man who, large of heart,
Has learnt the rare, illustrious art
Of being rich: stores starve us, or they cloy,
From gold, if more than chymic skill
Extract not what is brighter still,
’Tis hard to gain, much harder to enjoy.
Plenty’s a means, and joy her end:
Exalted minds their joys extend:
A Chandos shines, when others’ joys are done;
As lofty turrets, by their height,
When humbler scenes resign their light,
Retain the rays of the declining sun.
Pregnant with blessings, Britain! swear,
No sordid son of thine shall dare
Offend the Donor of thy wealth and peace,
Who now His whole creation drains,
To pour into thy tumid veins
That blood of nations, — Commerce and Increase.
How various Nature! Turgid grain
Here nodding floats the golden plain;
There worms weave silken webs; here glowing vines
Lay forth their purple to the sun;
Beneath the soil there harvests run,
And king’s revenues ripen in the mines.
What’s various Nature? Art Divine,
Man’s soul to soften and refine:
Heaven different growths to different lands imparts,
That all may stand in need of all,
And interest draw around the ball
A net to catch and join all human hearts.
Thus has the great Creator’s pen
His law supreme to mortal men
In their necessities distinctly writ:
Even Appetite supplies the place
Of absent Virtue, absent Grace;
And human Want performs for human Wit.
Vast naval ensigns strew’d around
The wondering foreigner confound!
How stands the deep-awed continent aghast,
As her proud sceptred sons survey,
At every portion every quay, —
Huge mountains rise of cable, anchor, mast!
Th’ unwieldy tun, the ponderous bale! —
Each prince his own clime set to sale
Sees here, by subjects of a British king.
How earth’s abridged! All nations range ‘
A narrow spot, — our throng’d Exchange;
And send the streams of plenty from their spring.
Nor Earth alone, all Nature bends
In aid to Britain’s glorious ends.
Toils she in trade or bleeds in honest wars?
Her keel each yielding sea enthralls,
Each willing wind her canvass calls,
Her pilot into service ‘lists the stars.
In size confined, and humbly made,
What, though we creep beneath the shade,
And seem as emmets on this point, the ball?
Heaven lighted up the human soul,
Heaven bid its rays transpierce the whole,
And giving godlike Reason, gave us all.
Thou golden chain ‘twixt God and men,
Bless’d Reason! guide my life and pen:
All ills, like ghosts, fly trembling at thy light.
Who thee obeys, reigns over all;
Smiles, though the stars around him fall:
A God is nought but Reason Infinite.
The man of Reason is a God
Who scorns to stoop to Fortune’s nod;
Sole agent he beneath the shining sphere.
Others are passive, are impell’d,
Are frighten’d, flatter’d, sunk, or swell’d,
As Accident is pleased to domineer.
Our hopes and fears are much to blame:
Shall monarchs awe, or crowns inflame?
From gross mistake our idle tumult springs.
Those men the silly world disarm,
Elude the dart, dissolve the charm,
Who know the slender worth of men and things.
The present object, present day,
Are idle phantoms, and away;
What’s lasting only does exist. Know this, —
Life, fame, friends, freedom, empire, all,
Peace, commerce, freedom, nobly fall
