Classic Poem

J OVE , whose transcendent arts the poets sing,
By men made more than man, is found a king:
Whose thunder and inevitable flame
His justice and majestic awe proclaim:
His cheerful influence and refreshing show'rs,
Mercy and bounty, marks of heav'nly pow'rs.
These, free from Jove's disorders, bless thy reign,
And might restore the Golden Age again,
If all men, by thy great example led,
Would that preparéd way to virtue tread.
Rare cures, deep prophecies, harmonious lays,
Inspir'd Apollo, crown'd with wisdom's rays.
Thy only touch can heal: Thou to thy state
The better genius, oracle, and fate:
The poet's theme and patron, who at will
Canst add t' Augustus' sceptre Maro's quill.
Our world's clear eye, thy Cynthia, ever bright,
When nearest thee displays her fairest light.
May her exalted rays for ever join
In a benevolent aspéct with thine!
Not Cupid's wild-fires, but those beams which dart
From Venus' purer sphere, inflame thy heart.
Minerva's olive prospers in thy land,
And Neptune's ocean stoops to thy command.
Like Bacchus thy fresh youth and free delight,
Not as disguiséd in his frantic rites:
Such as, when he with Phœbus takes his seat
On sacred Nisa, and with quick'ning heat
Inspires the Muses. Thou, our Mercury,
From shades infernal wretches, doom'd to die,
Restor'st to light; thy prudent snakes assuage
Hell-nourish'd discord, and war's bloody rage.
Thy zeal to many Mercuries gives wing,
Who heav'nly embassies to mortals bring.
Thy vigilance secure repose imparts,
Yet build'st no counsels on his subtle arts.
Those old heroës with their heroines,
Who spangled all the firmament with signs,
Shut out succeeding worthies; scarce could spare
A little room for Berenice's hair.
Great Julius, who their gods transcended far,
Could rise no higher than a blazing star.
Others, whom after-ages most admire,
At comets catch, or stars new set on fire;
Which, though etherial, see not their event,
So soon, like sublunary glories, spent!
These, whose aspécts gave laws to destiny,
Before the lustre of the day-star fly;
Their lights prov'd erring fires, their influence vain,
And nothing but their empty names remain.
Those last immortaliz'd, whose dying breath
Pronounced them men, created gods by death;
Whom fragrant flames, Jove's eagles, perjuries,
And popular applause, rais'd to the skies;
Down shot like falling stars; more transitory
In their divine than in their human glory.
These, as the first, bold flattery deified:
Thou, to whom Heav'n that title hath applied,
Shalt by humility, a grace unknown
To their ambition, gain a heav'nly throne.
Enough, my muse! Time shall a poet raise,
Born under better stars, to sing his praise.