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POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1708 AND 1712

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY

This ode was written at the suggestion of Richard Steele, in 1708. It was recast in 1730 in briefer form so that it might be set to music; and the first four stanzas were considerably changed.

I

DESCEND, ye Nine, descend and sing:
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre.

In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain;
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound;
While in more lengthen'd notes and slow
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. 11
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the
skies:

Exulting in triumph now swell the bold

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By the heroes' armed shades,
Glitt'ring thro' the gloomy glades;
By the youths that died for love,
Wand'ring in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydice to life!
Oh, take the husband, or return the wife!
He sung, and Hell consented

To hear the Poet's prayer:
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the Fair.
Thus song could prevail
O'er Death and o'er Hell,

A conquest how hard and how glorious !
Tho' fate had fast bound her,
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and love were victorious.

VI

80

90

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Written in 1709 and sent in a letter to Henry Cromwell in 1711.

WHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,

Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, To all his friends, and ev'n his Queen unknown,

Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,

Furrow'd his rev'rend face, and white his hairs,

In his own palace forc'd to ask his bread, Scorn'd by those slaves his former bounty fed,

Forgot of all his own domestic crew, The faithful Dog alone his rightful master knew!

Unfed, unhous'd, neglected, on the clay, Like an old servant now cashier'd, he lay; Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful

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THE TRANSLATOR

'Egbert Sanger,' says Warton, 'served his apprenticeship with Jacob Tonson, and succeeded Bernard Lintot in his shop at Middle Temple Gate, Fleet Street. Lintot printed Ozell's translation of Perrault's Characters, and Sanger his translation of Boileau's Lutrin, recommended by Rowe, in 1709.'

OZELL, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse

For who to sing for Sanger could refuse? His numbers such as Sanger's self might use. Reviving Perrault, murd'ring Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley;

Which yet not much that old bard's anger rais'd,

Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell prais'd.

Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining,

Had not sage Rowe pronounc'd it entertaining;

How great must be the judgment of that writer,

Who The Plain Dealer damns, and prints The Biter!

ON MRS. TOFTS, A FAMOUS OPERA-SINGER

Katharine Tofts was an English opera singer popular in London between 1703 and 1709.

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But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
Let the strict life of graver mortals be
A long, exact, and serious Comedy;
In ev'ry scene some Moral let it teach,
And, if it can, at once both please and
preach.

Let mine an innocent gay farce appear,
And more diverting still than regular,
Have Humour, Wit, a native Ease and
Grace,

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy Tho' not too strictly bound to Time and

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Too much your Sex is by their forms confin'd,

Severe to all, but most to Womankind ; Custom, grown blind with Age, must be your guide;

Your pleasure is a vice, but not your pride; By Nature yielding, stubborn but for fame, Made slaves by honour, and made fools by shame;

Marriage may all those petty tyrants chase; But sets up one, a greater, in their place; Well might you wish for change by those accurst,

But the last tyrant ever proves the worst.

39

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The brightest eyes of France inspired his Muse;

The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse; And dead, as living, 't is our Author's pride Still to charm those who charm the world beside.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL

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80

This Ode was written, we find [in 1712], at the desire of Steele; and our Poet, in a letter to him on that occasion, says, You have it, as Cowley calls it, just warm from the brain; it came to me the first moment I waked this morning; yet you 'll see, it was not so absolutely inspiration, but that I had in my head, not only the verses of Hadrian, but the fine fragment of Sappho.' It is possible, however, that our Author might have had another composition in his head, besides those he here refers to for there is a close and surprising resemblance between this Ode of Pope, and one of an obscure and forgotten rhymer of the age of Charles the Second, Thomas Flatman. (Warton). Pope's version of the Adriani morientis ad Animum was written at about this date, and sent to Steele for publication in The Spectator. It ran as follows:-

Ah, fleeting Spirit! wand'ring fire,

That long hast warm'd my tender breast,
Must thou no more this frame inspire,
No more a pleasing cheerful guest?
Whither, ah whither, art thou flying,
To what dark undiscover'd shore?
Thou seem'st all trembling, shiv'ring, dying,
And Wit and Humour are no more!'

I

VITAL spark of heav'nly flame,
Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

II

Hark! they whisper; Angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away.
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my Soul! can this be Death?

III

The world recedes; it disappears; Heav'n opens on my eyes; my ears

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