TO LOVE .
S AY, LOVE , what master shows thy art,
That sweet improver of mankind;
Which warms with sentiment the heart,
With information stores the mind?
Whence does the soul, disdaining earth,
To ether wing it's ardent way;
Who gives the bold expressions birth,
That all it's images convey?
'Tis not to GREECE 's learned soil,
The world this happy culture owes;
Which not from ARISTOTLE 's toil,
Nor yet from PLATO 's fancy flows.
Apollo , and the tuneful NINE
Attempt the envied song in vain;
Their numbers are not so divine
As is the lover's tender strain.
Scholastick art, the muse's lyre,
In vain their privileges boast;
The lover breathes a purer fire;
He sings the best, who feels the most.
No power above, and none below,
But, thou, O love, can thee express;
To thee thy sentiments we owe;
To thee we owe their glowing dress.
Thou canst refine the simple breast,
And to a poet raise a swain;
His humble soul by thce impressed,
Assumes a warm, exalted strain:
His manners take a nobler turn;
His inspiration we descry;
Upon his cheek we see it burn;
And speak, in lightning, from his eye.
With such a new ideal store,
Thy dictates fill the rustic mind;
Such oratory shepherds pour,
They leave a CICERO far behind.
Nay, to such heights thy powers can reach;
With thee such varied rhetorick dwells,
That even the struggling, broken speech,
The modelled period far excells.
Thy silence oft, in striking pause,
The lover's great ideas paints;
Sublime conception is it's cause;
The mind expands, but language faints:
Free, uncompressed, the thought appears,
Which words would awkwardly controul;
And nature holds our eyes, and ears;
We seem to hear, and see the soul.
The lettered youth let PLATO 's page,
With generous sentiment inspire;
I'm better taught than by a Sage,
And catch a more ethereal fire.
A speedier, and a nobler aid
My virtue gains from CELIA 's eyes;
By them more happy I am made;
And as I'm happy, I am wise.
Let the mistaken world suppose
That nature in old HOMER reigns;
Or still more blindly think she flows
In VIRGIL 's cold, and laboured strains:
I carve my love upon a tree;
Scholars, consult it's faithful rind;
Throw books away; for there you'll see
A livelier copy of the mind.
S AY, LOVE , what master shows thy art,
That sweet improver of mankind;
Which warms with sentiment the heart,
With information stores the mind?
Whence does the soul, disdaining earth,
To ether wing it's ardent way;
Who gives the bold expressions birth,
That all it's images convey?
'Tis not to GREECE 's learned soil,
The world this happy culture owes;
Which not from ARISTOTLE 's toil,
Nor yet from PLATO 's fancy flows.
Apollo , and the tuneful NINE
Attempt the envied song in vain;
Their numbers are not so divine
As is the lover's tender strain.
Scholastick art, the muse's lyre,
In vain their privileges boast;
The lover breathes a purer fire;
He sings the best, who feels the most.
No power above, and none below,
But, thou, O love, can thee express;
To thee thy sentiments we owe;
To thee we owe their glowing dress.
Thou canst refine the simple breast,
And to a poet raise a swain;
His humble soul by thce impressed,
Assumes a warm, exalted strain:
His manners take a nobler turn;
His inspiration we descry;
Upon his cheek we see it burn;
And speak, in lightning, from his eye.
With such a new ideal store,
Thy dictates fill the rustic mind;
Such oratory shepherds pour,
They leave a CICERO far behind.
Nay, to such heights thy powers can reach;
With thee such varied rhetorick dwells,
That even the struggling, broken speech,
The modelled period far excells.
Thy silence oft, in striking pause,
The lover's great ideas paints;
Sublime conception is it's cause;
The mind expands, but language faints:
Free, uncompressed, the thought appears,
Which words would awkwardly controul;
And nature holds our eyes, and ears;
We seem to hear, and see the soul.
The lettered youth let PLATO 's page,
With generous sentiment inspire;
I'm better taught than by a Sage,
And catch a more ethereal fire.
A speedier, and a nobler aid
My virtue gains from CELIA 's eyes;
By them more happy I am made;
And as I'm happy, I am wise.
Let the mistaken world suppose
That nature in old HOMER reigns;
Or still more blindly think she flows
In VIRGIL 's cold, and laboured strains:
I carve my love upon a tree;
Scholars, consult it's faithful rind;
Throw books away; for there you'll see
A livelier copy of the mind.