Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A PINDARICK TO MRS. BEHN ON HER POEM ON THE CORONATION, by ANONYMOUS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A PINDARICK TO MRS. BEHN ON HER POEM ON THE CORONATION, by                    
First Line: "hail, thou sole empress of the land of wit"
Last Line: Since the first mother of mankind rebell'd
Subject(s): "behn, Aphra (1640-1689);james Ii, King Of England (1633-1701);life;poetry & Poets;women;


Hail, thou sole Empress of the Land of wit,
To whom all conquer'd Authors must submit,
And at thy feet their fading Laurels lay,
The utmost tribute that a Muse can pay,
To thy unlabour'd Song o'th' Coronation day.
The subject was Divine we all confess,
Nor was that flame, thy mighty fancy, less.
That cloth'd thy thought in such a pleasing dress,
As did at once a Masculine wit express,
And all the softness of a Femal tenderness.
No more shall men their fancy'd Empire hold,
Since thou Astrea form'd of finer mould,
By nature temper'd more with humid cold,
Doth man excel --
Not in soft strokes alone, but even in the bold.
And as thy purer Blood,
Thrôo more transparent vessels is convey'd
Thy spirits more fine and subtil do thy brain invade.
And nimbler come uncall'd unto thy aide;
So the gay thought --
Which thy still flowing fancy does inspire
New, uncontroul'd and warm, as young desire,
Have more of kindling heat and fiercer fire;
Not to be reach't, or prays'd, unless by such
As the same happy temperament possess;
Since none with equal numbers can reward thy Lays,
May the just Monarch, which you praise,
Daine to acknowledg this.
Not with a short applause of crackling Bays
But a return that may revive thy days;
And thy well-meaning grateful loyal Muse
Cherisht by that blest theam its zeale did chuse.
Maist thou be blest with such a sweet retreat,
That with contempt thou maist behold the great;
Such as the mighty Cowlys well-known seat.
Whose lofty Elms I wou'd have all thy own,
And in the mid'st a spacious shady Throne,
Rais'd on a Mount that shou'd Parnassus be,
And every Muse included all in thee.
On whose coole top alone thou shoud'st dispense
The Laws of Wit, Love, Loyalty and Sense:
The new Arcadia shou'd the Grove be nam'd
And for the guift our grateful Monarch fam'd.

Amidst the shade, I'd wish a well built House,
Like Sidneys Noble Kalendar shou'd stand,
Raising its head and all the rest command.
Its out-side gay, its inside clean and neat
With all of lifes conveniencies replete,
Where all the Elements at once conspire
To give what mans necessities require,
Rich soyle, pure Aire, streams coole, and useful fire.
The fertil spot with pleasure shou'd abound
And with Elizium-Spring be ever crown'd.
When thou thy mind unbend'st from thoughtful hours,
Then shou'dst thou be refresht with Fruits and Flowrs,
The Gods and Nymphs of Woods and Springs
Shall Dance in Antique Rural Rings:
While scaly Trytons and grim Satyrs play
Such Tunes, as Birds compose, to welcome day.
Till the glad noyse to distant shores resound,
And flying Birds joyn in th'Harmonious sound
Which listning Echo's catch at the rebound.
Here without toyle, or pining want perplext
Thy Body easy and thy mind at rest,
With all Lifes valu'd pleasures blest,
Thy largest wishes still thou shoud'st enjoy
Inviron'd with delights that ne're can cloy.

Accept, thou much lov'd Sappho of our Isle,
This hearty wish, and grace it with a smile,
When thou shalt know that thy Harmonious Lire
Did me, the meanest of thy sex, inspire.
And that thy own inimitable lays
Are cause alone that I attempt thy praise.
Which in unequal measure I rehearse
Because unskill'd in numbers Grace, or Verse;
Great Pindars flights are fit alone for thee,
The witty Horace's Iambicks be
Like Virgils lofty strains, alas too hard for me.
And if enough this do not plead excuse,
Pity the failings of a Virgin Muse.
That never in this kind before essai'd,
Her Muse till now was, like her self, -- a Maid.
Whose Blooming labours thus she dedicates to you,
A Tribute justly to your merits due;
At least her part of gratitude to pay
For that best Song o'th' Coronation day.
How bad wou'd the Ill-natur'd World requite
Thy noble labours if they do not write,
Who have, perhaps, been happy in this kind
To own thou'st now out-done all that they e're design'd.
Sure none with malice e're was so accurst,
This to deny but will with envy burst,
Since even thy own more envious sex agree
The glorious theam had right alone from thee;
The femal Writers thou hast all excell'd,
Since the first mother of mankind rebell'd.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net