Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN ODE TO JAMES, EARL OF DESMOND, by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Where art thou, genius? I should use Last Line: As far from all revolt, as you are now from fortune. | ||||||||
Where art thou, genius? I should use Thy present aid: arise invention, Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's muse, To tower with my intention High, as his mind, that doth advance Her upright head, above the reach of chance, Or the times' envy: Cynthius, I apply My bolder numbers to thy golden lyre: O, then inspire Thy priest in this strange rapture; heat my brain With Delphic fire: That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar strain. Rich beam of honour, shed your light On these dark rhymes; that my affection May shine (through every chink) to every sight Graced by your reflection! Then shall my verses, like strong charms Break the knit circle of her stony arms, That holds your spirit: And keeps your merit Locked in her cold embraces, from the view Of eyes more true, Who would with judgement search, searching conclude, (As proved in you) True noblesse. Palm grows straight, though handled ne'er so rude! Nor think yourself unfortunate, If subject to the jealous errors Of politic pretext, that wries a state, Sink not beneath these terrors: But whisper; O glad innocence Where only a man's birth is his offence; Or the disfavour, Of such as savour Nothing, but practise upon honour's thrall. O virtue's fall, When her dead essence (like the anatomy In Surgeons' Hall) Is but a statist's theme, to read phlebotomy. Let Brontes, and black Steropes Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating; Pyracmon's hour will come to give them ease, Though but while metal's heating: And, after all the Etnean ire, Gold, that is perfect, will outlive the fire. For fury wasteth, As patience lasteth. No armour to the mind! He is shot-free From injury, That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit; So fools we see, Oft scape an imputation, more through luck, than wit. But to yourself, most loyal lord, (Whose heart in that bright sphere flames clearest, Though many gems be in your bosom stored, Unknown which is the dearest) If I auspiciously divine, (As my hope tells) that our fair Phoebe's shine, Shall light those places, With lustrous graces, Where darkness with her gloomy sceptered hand, Doth now command; O then (my best-best loved) let me importune, That you will stand, As far from all revolt, as you are now from fortune. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME [OR, RIME] by BEN JONSON A NYMPH'S PASSION by BEN JONSON A SONNET, TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH by BEN JONSON AN ODE TO HIMSELF by BEN JONSON ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, 'SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?' by BEN JONSON EPICOENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN: FREEDOM IN DRESS by BEN JONSON EPIGRAM: 118. ON GUT by BEN JONSON |
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