Classic Poem

TO HENRY ST. JOHN, ESQ. 1706.

O THOU , from India's fruitful soil,
That dost that sovereign herb prepare,
In whose rich fumes I lose the toil
Of life and every anxious care,
While from the fragrant lighted bole
I suck new life into my soul;

Thou, only thou! art kind to view
The parching flames that I sustain,
Which with cool draughts thy casks subdue,
And wash away the thirsty pain
With wines, whose strength and taste we prize,
From Latian suns and nearer skies:

O! say, to bless thy pious love
What vows, what offerings shall I bring?
Since I can spare, and thou approve,
No other gift, O hear me sing!
In numbers Phaebus does inspire,
Who strings for thee the charming lyre.

Aloft above the liquid sky
I stretch my wing, and fain would go
Where Rome's sweet swan did whilom fly,
And soaring left the clouds below,
The Muse invoking to endue
With strength his pinions as he flew.

Whether he sings great Beauty's praise,
Love's gentle pain, or tender woes,
Or choose the subject of his lays,
The blushing grape, or blooming rose;
Or near cool Cyrrha's rocky springs
Maecenas listens while he sings:

Yet he, no nobler draught could boast
His Muse, or music to inspire,
Though all Falernum's purple coast
Flow'd in each glass, to lend him fire;
And on his tables us'd to smile
The vintage of rich Chio's isle.

Maecenas deign'd to hear his songs,
His Muse extoll'd, his voice approv'd;
To thee a fairer fame belongs,
At once more pleasing, more belov'd:
Oh! teach my heart to bound its flame
As I record thy love and fame.

Teach me the passion to restrain,
As I my grateful homage bring;
And, last in Phaebus' humble train,
The first and brightest genius sing;
The Muses' favourite pleas'd to live,
Paying them back the fame they give.

But oh! as greatly I aspire
To tell my love, to speak thy praise;
Boasting no more its sprightly fire,
My bosom heaves, my voice decays;
With pain I touch the mournful string,
And pant and languish as I sing.

Faint nature now demands that breath,
That feebly strives thy worth to sing;
And would be hush'd and lost in death,
Did not thy care kind succours bring
Thy pitying casks my soul sustain,
And call new life in every vein.

The sober glass I now behold,
Thy health with fair Francisca's join,
Wishing her cheeks may long unfold
Such beauties, and be ever thine;
No chance the tender joy remove,
While she can please, and thou canst love.

Thus while by you the British arms
Triumphs, and distant fame pursue,
The yielding fair resigns her charms,
And gives you leave to conquer too:
Her snowy neck, her breast, her eyes,
And all the nymph, becomes your prize.

What comely grace, what beauty smiles,
Upon her lips what sweetness dwells!
Not Love himself so oft beguiles,
Nor Venus' self so much excels;
What different fates our passions share
While you enjoy and I despair!

Maria's form as I survey,
Her smiles a thousand wounds impart;
Each feature steals my soul away,
Each glance deprives me of my heart;
And, chasing thence each other fair,
Leaves her own image only there.

Although my anxious breast despair,
And, sighing, hopes no kind return,
Yet for the lov'd relentless fair
By night I wake, by day I burn;
Nor can thy gifts soft sleep supply,
Or soothe my pains or close my eye.