Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO MY REVEREND FRIEND, DR. SAM. WOODFORD, ON HIS VERSION OF THE PSALMS, by THOMAS FLATMAN Poet's Biography First Line: See (worthy friend) what I would do Last Line: In tissue you, and tyrian purple have him clad. Subject(s): Bible; Translating & Interpreting; Woodford, Samuel (1636-1700) | ||||||||
Stanza I. SEE (worthy friend) what I would do (Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire), That have no friend in all the sacred quire, To show my kindness for your Book, and you, Forc'd to disparage what I would admire; Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now, Since the great Pindar's greatest Son From the ingrateful age is gone, Cowley has bid th' ingrateful age adieu; Apollo's rare Columbus, he Found out new worlds of Poesy: He, like an eagle, soar'd aloft, To seize his noble prey; Yet as a dove's, his soul was soft, Quiet as Night, but bright as Day: To Heaven in a fiery chariot he Ascended by seraphic Poetry; Yet which of us dull mortals since can find Any inspiring mantle, that he left behind? II. His powerful numbers might have done you right; He could have spar'd you immortality, Under that Chieftain's banners you might fight Assur'd of laurels, and of victory Over devouring Time and sword and fire And Jove's important ire: My humble verse would better sing David the Shepherd, than the King: And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one (Though of the meaner sort) Of them that may approach a Prince's throne, If 'twere but to be seen at Court. Such, Sir, is my ambition for a name, Which I shall rather take from you, than give, For in your Book I cannot miss of fame, But by contact shall live. Thus on your chariot wheel shall I Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's fly, Who from th' Olympian Race new come, And now triumphantly flown home, To's neighbours of the swarm thus proudly said, Don't you remember what a dust I made! III. Where'er the Son of Jesse's harp shall sound, Or Israel's sweetest songs be sung, (Like Samson's lion sweet and strong) You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd, To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes His last deliverance from all his foes. Blood-thirsty Saul, less barbarous than they, His person only sought to kill; These would his deathless poems slay, And sought immortal blood to spill, To sing whose songs in Babylon would be A new Captivity: Deposed by these rebels, you alone Restor'd the glorious David to his throne. Long in disguise the royal Prophet lay, Long from his own thoughts banished, Ne'er since his death till this illustrious day Was sceptre in his hand, or crown plac'd on his head: He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin As once before proud Achish he appear'd, His face besmear'd, With spittle on his sacred beard, A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine. Drest in their rhymes, he look'd as he were mad, In tissue you, and Tyrian purple have him clad. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN APPEAL TO CATS IN THE BUSINESS OF LOVE; SONG by THOMAS FLATMAN A CHARACTER OF A BELLY-GOD; CATIUS AND HORACE by THOMAS FLATMAN A DIALOGUE; CLORIS AND PARTHENISSA by THOMAS FLATMAN A DIALOGUE; ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE by THOMAS FLATMAN A DOOMS-DAY THOUGHT by THOMAS FLATMAN A SONG ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY BEFORE THE KING, CAR. 2 by THOMAS FLATMAN A THOUGHT OF DEATH by THOMAS FLATMAN ADVICE TO AN OLD MAN OF SIXTY-THREE, ABOUT TO MARRY A GIRL OF SIXTEEN by THOMAS FLATMAN |
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