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Ode on a Sermon Against Glory

   COME then, tell me, sage divine,

   Is it an offence to own

   That our bosoms e'er incline

   Toward immortal glory's throne?

   For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,

   Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,

   So can fancy's dream rejoice,

   So conciliate reason's choice,

As one approving word of her impartial voice.

   If to spurn at noble praise

   Be the pass-port to thy heaven,

   Follow thou those gloomy ways;

   No such law to me was given,

   Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me

   Faring like my friends before me;

   Nor an holier place desire

   Than Timolean's arms acquire,

And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.

Mark Akenside

To Cordelia

July 1740

From pompous life's dull masquerade,

   From Pride's pursuits, and Passion's war,

   Far, my Cordelia, very far,

To thee and me may Heaven assign

The silent pleasures of the shade,

The joys of peace, unenvied, though divine!

Safe in the calm embowering grove,

   As thy own lovely brow serene;

   Behold the world's fantastic scene!

What low pursuits employ the great,

What tinsel things their wishes move,

The forms of Fashion, and the toys of State.

In vain are all Contentment's charms,

   Her placid mien, her cheerful eye;

   For look, Cordelia, how they fly!

Allur'd by Power, Applause, or Gain,

They fly her kind protecting arms;

Ah, blind to pleasure, and in love with pain!

Turn and indulge a fairer view,

   Smile on the joys which here conspire;

   O joys harmonious as my lyre!

O prospect of enchanting things,

As ever slumbering poet knew,

When Love and Fancy wrapt him in their wings!

Here, no rude storm of Passion blows,

   But Sports, and Smiles, and Virtues play,

   Cheer'd by Affection's purest ray;

The air still breathes Contentment's balm,

And the clear stream of Pleasure flows

For ever active, yet for ever calm.

Mark Akenside

The shape alone let others prize

THE shape alone let others prize,

   The features of the fair:

I look for spirit in her eyes,

   And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,

   Shall ne'er my wishes win:

Give me an animated form,

   That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honour shines,

   Where sense and sweetness move,

And angel innocence refines

   The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame;

   Without whose vital aid,

Unfinish'd all her features seem,

   And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,

   How perfect is the view,

With every image of delight,

   With graces ever new:

Of power to charm the greatest woe,

   The wildest rage control,

Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,

   And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express

   All language must despair;

But go, behold Arpasia's face,

   And read it perfect there.

Mark Akenside

Inscription for a Grotto

TO ME, whom in their lays the shepherds call

Actoe a, daughter of the neighbouring stream,

This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,

Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,

Were placed by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,

Primrose, and purple lychnis, deck'd the green

Before my threshold, and my shelving walls

With honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon,

Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount,

I slumber; here my clustering fruits I tend;

Or, from the humid flowers at break of day,

Fresh garlands weave, and chase from all my hounds

Each thing impure or noxious. Enter in,

O stranger, undismay'd. Nor bat nor toad

Here lurks; and, if thy breast of blameless thoughts

Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread

My quiet mansion; chiefly, if thy name

Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.

Mark Akenside

Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock

SUCH was old Chaucer; such the placid mien

Of him who first with harmony inform'd

The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt

For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls

Have often heard him, while his legends blithe

He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles

Of homely life: through each estate and age,

The fashions and the follies of the world

With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance

From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come

Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain

Dost thou applaud them if thy breast be cold

To him, this other hero; who, in times

Dark and untaught, began with charming verse

To tame the rudeness of his native land.

Mark Akenside

Inscription for a Column at Runnymede

THOU who the verdant plain dost traverse here,

While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires;

O stranger, stay thee, and the scene

Around contemplate well. This is the place

Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms

And stern with conquest, from their tyrant king

(Then render'd tame) did challenge and secure

The charter of thy freedom. Pass not on

Till thou hast bless'd their memory, and paid

Those thanks which God appointed the reward

Of public virtue. And if chance thy home

Salute thee with a father's honour'd name,

Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt

They owe their ancestors; and make them swear

To pay it, by transmitting down entire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.

Mark Akenside

Me though in life's sequester'd vale

   ME THOUGH in life's sequester'd vale

   The Almighty Sire ordain'd to dwell,

   Remote from glory's toilsome ways,

   And the great scenes of public praise;

   Yet let me still with grateful pride

   Remember how my infant frame

   He temper'd with prophetic flame,

And early music to my tongue supplied.

   'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,

   And, this be thy concern, he said,

   At once with Passion's keen alarms,

   And Beauty's pleasurable charms,

   And sacred Truth's eternal light,

   To move the various mind of Man ;

   Till, under one unblemish'd plan,

His Reason, Fancy, and his Heart unite.

Mark Akenside

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