Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ODE, by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643)


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AN ODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Awake faire muse, for I intend
Last Line: No king shall owne my verses for his tombe.
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, William Of Tavistock
Subject(s): Death; Drayton, Michael (1563-1631); Poetry & Poets; Spenser, Edmund (1552-1599); Dead, The


Awake faire Muse; for I intend
These everlasting lines to thee,
And, honor'd Drayton, come and lend
An eare to this sweet melodye:
For on my harpes most high and silver string,
To those Nine Sisters whom I love, I sing.
This man through death and horror seekes
Honor, by the Victorious Steele;
Another in unmapped creekes
For Jewells moores his winged keele.
The clam'rous Barre wins some, and others bite
At lookes throwne from a mushroom Favorite.
But I, that serve the lovely Graces,
Spurne at that drosse, which most adore;
And titles hate, like paynted faces,
And heart-fed Care for evermore.
Those pleasures I disdaine, which are pursude
With praise and wishes by the multitude.
The Bayes, which deathless Learning crownes,
Me of Apollo's troope installs:
The Satyres following o'er the downes
Fair Nymphs to rusticke festivalls,
Make me affect (where men no traffique have)
The holy horror of a Savage Cave.
Through the faire skyes I thence intend,
With an unus'd and powerfull wing,
To beare me to my Journeyes end:
And those that taste the Muses spring,
Too much celestiall fire have at their birth,
To live long time like common soules in Earth.
From faire Aurora will I reare
My selfe unto the source of floods;
And from the Ethiopian Beare,
To him as white as snowy woods;
Nor shall I feare (for this daye taking flight)
To be wounde up in any veil of night.
Of Death I may not feare the dart,
As is the use of Human State;
For well I knowe my better part
Dreads not the hand of Time or Fate.
Tremble at Death, Envye, and Fortune who
Have but one life: Heaven gives a Poet two.
All costly obsequies inveigh,
Marble and painting too, as vayne;
My ashes shall not meet with Clay,
As those doe of the vulgar trayne.
And if my Muse to Spensers glory come
No King shall owne my verses for his Tombe.





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