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OH nymph divine! as opening morning fair!
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Bright as the sun! yet lighter than the air!
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Yet more uncertain than the whistling winds!
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Where shall we find, or fix your resting place?
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Now here, now there, eluding still the chase.
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OH it's in vain, as ancient proverbs say,
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To seek a needle in a load of hay;
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As vain it is to fix your certain bound:
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And yet I sought you where soft pleasure dwells,
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Pleasure, thou soft retreat! but hard to find,
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And opening only to the patient mind.
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Through various alleys, perilous and dark,
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My way I shape, and every footstep mark;
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Lest through some passage, elbowed to and fro,
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Like a small skiff my little bark was hurled,
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Tossed to and fro amid a laughing world;
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Yet, spite of these, I boldly ventured forth,
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And bid defiance to the surly North.
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By You, my Polar Star, awhile I steer,
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There, there I land, no more of winds the sport,
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And found the gallant Lovelace safe in port.
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His reckoning failing, and his compass lost,
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Some hospitable shore at length in view,
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Pushes to land, with all his jovial crew:
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What Charms You have, from what high Race You sprung,
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Have been the pleasing Subjects of my Song:
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Unskilled and young, yet something still I writ,
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What greater Theme Your Music can produce;
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My babbling Praises I repeat no more;
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But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
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The Persians thus, first gazing on the Sun,
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But, as his Power was known, their Thoughts were raised;
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And soon They worshipped, what at first They praised.
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That as in Birth, in Beauty You excel,
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The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell:
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Your Art no other Art can speak; and You,
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To show how well You play, must play anew:
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Your Music's Power Your Music must disclose;
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For what Light is, it's only Light that shows.
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Strange Force of Harmony, that thus controls
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While with it's utmost Art Your Sex could move
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Our Wonder only, or at best our Love:
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You far above Both these Your GOD did place;
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That Your high Power might worldly Thoughts destroy;
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That with Your Numbers You our Zeal might raise,
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And, like Himself, communicate Your Joy.
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When to Your Native Heaven You shall repair,
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And with Your Presence crown the Blessings there;
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Your Lute may wind it's Strings but little higher,
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To tune their Notes to that immortal Quire.
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Your Art is perfect here: Your Numbers do,
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More than our Books, make the rude Atheist know,
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As in some Piece, while Luke his Skill expressed,
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A cunning Angel came, and drew the rest:
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So, when You play, some Godhead does impart
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Harmonious Aid; Divinity helps Art:
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Some Cherub finishes what You begun,
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And to a Miracle improves a Tune.
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To burning Rome when frantic Nero played,
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Viewing that Face, no more He had surveyed
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The raging Flames; but struck with strange Surprise,
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Confessed them less than Those of Anna's Eyes:
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But had He heard Thy Lute, He soon had found
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And from Destruction called the rising Town:
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Malice to Music had been forced to yield;
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With the united Glories of his Line,
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Not only Royal Tears adorn his Urn,
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But you have taught the Subjects all to mourn:
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Your melting Lines, make conscious Passion vent
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Soft are thy strains as his once moving Tongue,
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Fond Venus lose was less divinely Sung;
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The weeping Nymphs, all throw their Cypress down,
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You from whom Kings such Glories do receive,
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Dismissed at length, they break through all delay
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To tempt the dangers of the doubtful way;
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Whose walls along the neighbouring sea extend.
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Nor yet in prospect rose the distant shore,
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Scarce the hoarse waves from far were heard to roar,
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When thwart the road a river rolled its flood
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Tempestuous, and all further course withstood:
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The wondrous sage: vigorous he seemed in years,
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Awful his mien; low as his feet there flows
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Against the stream the waves secure he trod,
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And winter binds the floods in icy chains,
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Fearless in long excursion loves to glide,
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So moved the seer, but on no hardened plain:
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The river boiled beneath and rushed towards the main.
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Where fixed in wonder stood the warlike pair
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His course he turned and thus relieved their care:
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' Vast, OH my friends, and difficult the toil
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To seek your hero in a distant soil!
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No common helps, no common guide, you need,
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Art it requires and more than winged speed.
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What length of sea remains, what various lands,
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Oceans unknown, inhospitable sands!
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For adverse fate the captive chief has hurled
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Beyond the confines of our narrow world.
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Great things and full of wonder in your ears
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I shall unfold; but first dismiss your fears,
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Nor doubt with me to tread the downward road
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