Ode II To Sleep
1 Thou silent power, whose welcome sway
Charms every anxious thought away;
In whose divine oblivion drown’d,
Sore pain and weary toil grow mild,
Love is with kinder looks beguiled,
And grief forgets her fondly cherish’d wound;
Oh, whither hast thou flown, indulgent god?
God of kind shadows and of healing dews,
Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethæan rod?
Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?
2 Lo, Midnight from her starry reign
Looks awful down on earth and main.
The tuneful birds lie hush’d in sleep,
With all that crop the verdant food,
With all that skim the crystal flood,
Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.
No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers;
No wakeful sound the moonlight valley knows,
Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,
And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.
3 Oh, let not me alone complain,
Alone invoke thy power in vain!
Descend, propitious, on my eyes;
Not from the couch that bears a crown,
Not from the courtly statesman’s down,
Nor where the miser and his treasure lies:
Bring not the shapes that break the murderer’s rest,
Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see,
Nor those which haunt the bigot’s gloomy breast:
Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!
4 Nor yet those awful forms present,
For chiefs and heroes only meant:
The figured brass, the choral song,
The rescued people’s glad applause,
The listening senate, and the laws
Fix’d by the counsels of Timoleon’s [1] tongue,
Are scenes too grand for fortune’s private ways;
And though they shine in youth’s ingenuous view,
The sober gainful arts of modern days
To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.
5 I ask not, god of dreams, thy care
To banish Love’s presentments fair:
Nor rosy cheek nor radiant eye
Can arm him with such strong command
That the young sorcerer’s fatal hand
Should round my soul his pleasing fetters tie.
Nor yet the courtier’s hope, the giving smile
(A lighter phantom, and a baser chain)
Did e’er in slumber my proud lyre beguile
To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.
6 But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing
Such honourable visions bring,
As soothed great Milton’s injured age,
When in prophetic dreams he saw
The race unborn with pious awe
Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page:
Or such as Mead’s benignant fancy knows
When health’s deep treasures, by his art explored,
Have saved the infant from an orphan’s woes,
Or to the trembling sire his age’s hope restored.1
Ode III
To the Cuckoo
1 O rustic herald of the spring,
At length in yonder woody vale
Fast by the brook I hear thee sing;
And, studious of thy homely tale,
Amid the vespers of the grove,
Amid the chanting choir of love,
Thy sage responses hail.
2 The time has been when I have frown’d
To hear thy voice the woods invade;
And while thy solemn accent drown’d
Some sweeter poet of the shade,
Thus, thought I, thus the sons of care
Some constant youth or generous fair
With dull advice upbraid.
3 I said, ‘While Philomela’s song
Proclaims the passion of the grove,
It ill beseems a cuckoo’s tongue
Her charming language to reprove’—
Alas, how much a lover’s ear
Hates all the sober truth to hear,
The sober truth of love!
4 When hearts are in each other bless’d,
When nought but lofty faith can rule
The nymph’s and swain’s consenting breast,
How cuckoo-like in Cupid’s school,
With store of grave prudential saws
On fortune’s power and custom’s laws,
Appears each friendly fool!
5 Yet think betimes, ye gentle train
Whom love, and hope, and fancy sway,
Who every harsher care disdain,
Who by the morning judge the day,
Think that, in April’s fairest hours,
To warbling shades and painted flowers
The cuckoo joins his lay.
Ode IV
To the Honourable Charles Townshend; in the Country. 1750
I — 1
How oft shall I survey
This humble roof, the lawn, the greenwood shade,
The vale with sheaves o’erspread,
The glassy brook, the flocks which round thee stray?
When will thy cheerful mind
Of these have utter’d all her dear esteem?
Or, tell me, dost thou deem
No more to join in glory’s toilsome race,
But here content embrace
That happy leisure which thou hadst resign’d?
I — 2
Alas, ye happy hours,
When books and youthful sport the soul could share,
Ere one ambitious care
Of civil life had awed her simpler powers;
Oft as your winged, train
Revisit here my friend in white array,
Oh, fail not to display
Each fairer scene where I perchance had part,
That so his generous heart
The abode of even friendship may remain.
I — 3
For not imprudent of my loss to come,
I saw from Contemplation’s quiet cell
His feet ascending to another home,
Where public praise and envied greatness dwell.
But shall we therefore, O my lyre,
Reprove ambition’s best desire,—
Extinguish glory’s flame?
Far other was the task enjoin’d
When to my hand thy strings were first assign’d:
Far other faith belongs to friendship’s honour’d name.
II — 1
Thee, Townshend, not the arms
Of slumbering Ease, nor Pleasure’s rosy chain,
Were destined to detain;
No, nor bright Science, nor the Muse’s charms.
For them high heaven prepares
Their proper votaries, an humbler band:
And ne’er would Spenser’s hand
Have deign’d to strike the warbling Tuscan shell,
Nor Harrington to tell
What habit an immortal city wears;
II — 2
Had this been born to shield
The cause which Cromwell’s impious hand betray’d,
Or that, like Vere, display’d
His redcross banner o’er the Belgian field;
Yet where the will divine
Hath shut those loftiest paths, it next remains,
With reason clad in strains
Of harmony, selected minds to inspire,
And virtue’s living fire
To feed and eternise in hearts like thine.
II — 3
For never shall the herd, whom envy sways,
So quell my purpose or my tongue control,
That I should fear illustrious worth to praise,
Because its master’s friendship moved my soul.
Yet, if this undissembling strain
Should now perhaps thine ear detain
With any pleasing sound,
Remember thou that righteous Fame
From hoary age a strict account will claim
Of each auspicious palm with which thy youth was crown’d.
III — 1
Nor obvious is the way
Where heaven expects thee nor the traveller leads;
Through flowers or fragrant meads,
Or groves that hark to Philomela’s lay.
The impartial laws of fate
To nobler virtues wed severer cares.
Is there a man who shares
The summit next where heavenly natures dwell?
Ask him (for he can tell)
What storms beat round that rough laborious height.
III — 2
Ye heroes, who of old
Did generous England Freedom’s throne ordain;
From Alfred’s parent reign
To Nassau, great deliverer, wise and bold;
I know your perils hard,
Your wounds, your painful marches, wintry seas,
The night estranged from ease,
The day by cowardice and falsehood vex’d,
The head with doubt perplex’d,
The indignant heart disdaining the reward,
III — 3
Which envy hardly grants. But, O renown,
O praise from judging heaven and virtuous men,
If thus they purchased thy divinest crown,
Say, who shall hesitate, or who complain?
And now they sit on thrones above:
And when among the gods they move
Before the Sovereign Mind,
‘Lo, these,’ he saith, ‘lo, these are they
Who to the laws of mine eternal sway
From violence and fear asserted human kind.’
IV — 1
Thus honour’d while the train
Of legislators in his presence dwell;
If I may aught foretell,
The statesman shall the second palm obtain.
For dreadful deeds of arms
Let vulgar bards, with undiscerning praise,
More glittering trophies raise:
But wisest Heaven what deeds may chiefly move
To favour and to love?
What, save wide blessings, or averted harms?
IV — 2
Nor to the embattled field
Shall these achievements of the peaceful gown,
The green immortal crown
Of valour, or the songs of conquest, yield.
Not Fairfax wildly bold,
While bare of crest he hew’d his fatal way
Through Naseby’s firm array,
To heavier dangers did his breast oppose
Than Pym’s free virtue chose,
When the proud force of Strafford he controll’d.
IV — 3
But what is man at enmity with truth?
What were the fruits of Wentworth’s copious mind,
When (blighted all the promise of his youth)
The patriot in a tyrant’s league had join’d?
Let Ireland’s loud-lamenting plains,
Let Tyne’s and Humber’s trampled swains,
Let menaced London tell
How impious guile made wisdom base;
How generous zeal to cruel rage gave place;
And how unbless’d he lived and how dishonour’d fell.
V — 1
Thence never hath the Muse
Around his tomb Pierian roses flung:
Nor shall one poet’s tongue
His name for music’s pleasing labour choose.
And sure, when Nature kind
Hath deck’d some favour’d breast above the throng,
That man with grievous wrong
Affronts and wounds his genius, if he bends
To guilt’s ignoble ends
The functions of his ill-submitting mind.
V — 2
For worthy of the wise
Nothing can seem but virtue; nor earth yield
Their fame an equal field,
Save where impartial freedom gives the prize.
There Somers fix’d his name,
Enroll’d the next to William. There shall Time
To every wondering clime
Point out that Somers, who from faction’s crowd,
The slanderous and the loud,
Could fair assent and modest reverence claim.
V — 3
Nor aught did laws or social arts acquire,
Nor this majestic weal of Albion’s land
Did aught accomplish, or to aught aspire,
Without his guidance, his superior hand.
And rightly shall the Muse’s care
Wreaths like her own for him prepare,
Whose mind’s enamour’d aim
Could forms of civil beauty draw
Sublime as ever sage or poet saw,
Yet still to life’s rude scene the proud ideas tame.
VI — 1
Let none profane be near!
The Muse was never foreign to his breast:
On power’s grave seat confess’d,
Still to her voice he bent a lover’s ear.
And if the blessed know
Their ancient cares, even now the unfading groves,
Where haply Milton roves
With Spenser, hear the enchanted echoes round
Through farthest heaven resound
Wise Somers, guardian of their fame below.
VI — 2
He knew, the patriot knew,
That letters and the Muse’s powerful art
Exalt the ingenuous heart,
And brighten every form of just and true.
They lend a nobler sway
To civil wisdom, than corruption’s lure
Could ever yet procure:
They, too, from envy’s pale malignant light
Conduct her forth to sight,
Clothed in the fairest colours of the day.
VI — 3
O Townshend, thus may Time, the judge severe,
Instruct my happy tongue of thee to tell:
And when I speak of one to Freedom dear
For planning wisely and for acting well,
Of one whom Glory loves to own,
Who still by liberal means alone
Hath liberal ends pursued;
Then, for the guerdon of my lay,
‘This man with faithful friendship,’ will I say,
‘From youth to honour’d age my arts and me hath view’d.’
Notes
1 1: After Timoleon had delivered Syracuse from the tyranny of Dionysius, the people on every important deliberation sent for him into the public assembly, asked his advice, and voted according to it. —Plutarch.