THE PROGRESS OF POESY. A Pindaric Ode. Φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν ἐς Δὲ τὸ πᾶν ἐρμηνέων PINDAR. Ol. 11. I. I. AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take : Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. I. 2. Oh! Sov'reign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command. Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. I. 3. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day; With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: With arms sublime, that float upon the air, O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move II. I. Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate ! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse ? Night and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, C Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war. II. 2. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and freedom's holy flame. II. 3. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, |