Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PINDARIC ODE: THE MUSE, by ABRAHAM COWLEY

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PINDARIC ODE: THE MUSE, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Go, the rich chariot instantly prepare
Last Line: To fill up half the orb of round eternity.


GO, the rich Chariot instantly prepare;
The Queen, my Muse, will take the Air;
Unruly Fancy with strong Judgment trace,
Put in nimble-footed Wit,
Smooth-pace'd Eloquence join with it,
Sound Memory with young Invention place,
Harness all the winged Race.
Let the Postilion Nature, mount, and let
The Coachman Art be set.
And let the airy Footmen running all beside,
Make a long Row of goodly Pride.
Figures, Conceits, Raptures, and Sentences,
In a well-worded Dress.
And innocent Loves, and pleasant Truths, and useful Lies,
In all their gaudy Liveries.
Mount, glorious Queen, thy travelling Throne,
And bid it to put on;
For long, though chearful, is the way,
And Life, alas, allows but one ill Winter's Day.


Where never Foot of Man, or Hoof of Beast,
The Passage prest,
Where never Fish did fly,
And with short silver Wings cut the low liquid Sky.
Where Bird with painted Oars did ne'er
Row through the trackless Ocean of the Air.
Where never yet did pry
The busie Morning's curious Eye,
The Wheels of thy bold Coach pass quick and free;
And all's an open Road to thee.
Whatever God did say,
Is all thy plain and smooth, uninterrupted Way.
Nay, ev'n beyond his Works thy Voyages are known,
Thou 'hast thousand Worlds too of thine own.
Thou speak'st, great Queen, in the same Stile as he,
And a new World leaps forth when thou say'st, Let it be.


Thou fathom'st the deep Gulf of Ages past,
And canst pluck up with Ease
The Years which thou dost please;
Like shipwrackt Treasures by rude Tempests cast
Long since into the Sea,
Brought up again to Light and publick Use by thee.
Nor dost thou only dive so low,
But Fly,
With an unweary'd Wing the other Way on high,
Where Fates among the Stars do grow;
There into the close Nests of Time dost peep,
And there with piercing Eye,
Through the firm Shell, and the thick White dost spy,
Years to come a-forming lye,
Close in their sacred Secondine asleep,
'Till hatch'd by the Sun's vital Heat;
Which o'er them yet does brooding set,
They Life and Motion get;
And ripe at last, with vigorous Might,
Break thro' the Shell, and take their everlasting Flight.


And sure we may
The same too of the Present say,
If Past, and Future Times do thee obey.
Thou stopst this Current, and dost make
This running River settle like a Lake,
Thy certain Hand holds fast this slippery Snake.
The Fruit which does so quickly waste,
Men scarce can see it, much less taste,
Thou comfitest in Sweets to make it last.
This shining Piece of Ice
Which melts so soon away
With the Sun's Ray,
Thy Verse does solidate and crystallize;
'Till it a lasting Mirror be.
Nay thy Immortal Rhyme
Makes this one short Point of Time,
To fill up half the Orb of Round Eternity.

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