Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO MY HONOURED NOBLE FRIEND, THOMAS STANLEY, ESQ. ON HIS POEMS, by JOHN HALL (1627-1656)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY HONOURED NOBLE FRIEND, THOMAS STANLEY, ESQ. ON HIS POEMS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Who would commend thee, friend! And thinks 't may be
Last Line: Sings not till death, though in thine infancy.
Alternate Author Name(s): Hall Of Durham, John
Subject(s): Stanley, Thomas (1625-1678)


WHO would commend thee, friend! and thinks 't may be
Performed by a faint hyperbole,
Might also call thee but a man, or dare
To praise thy mistress with the term of fair.
But I, the choicest of whose knowledge is
My knowing thee, cannot so grossly miss.
Since thou art set so high, no words can give
An equal character, but negative.
Subtract the earth and baseness of this age,
Admit no wildfire in poetic rage,
Cast out of learning whatsoever's vain,
Let ignorance no more haunt noblemen,
Nor humour travellers, let wits be free
From over-weening, and the rest is thee.
Thee, noble soul! whose early flights are far
Sublimer than old eagles' soarings are,
Who light'st love's dying torch with purer fire,
And breath'st new life into the Teian lyre,
That love's best secretaries that are past,
Liv'd they, might learn to love, and yet be chaste.
Nay, vestals might as well such sonnets hear,
As keep their vows and thy Black Riband wear;
So chaste is all, that though in each line lie
More amorettoes than in Doris' eye,
Yet so they're charm'd, that look'd upon they prove
Harmless as Chariessa's nightly love.
So powerful is that tongue, that hand, that can
Make soft Ionics turn grave Lydian.
How oft this heavy, leaden Saturnine,
And never elevated soul of mine,
Hath been pluck'd up by thee, and forc'd away,
Enlarged from her still adhering clay!
How every line still pleas'd! when that was o'er
I cancell'd it, and prais'd the other more;
That if thou writ'st but on, my thoughts shall be
Almost ingulf'd in an infinity.
But, dearest friend, what law's power ever gave
To make one's own free first-born babe his slave?
Nay, manumise it; for what else wilt be
To strangle, but deny it liberty?
Once lend the world a day of thine, and fright
The trembling still-born children of the night.
That at the last, we undeceiv'd may see
Theirs were but fancies, thine in poetry.
Sweet swan of silver Thames! but only she
Sings not till death, though in thine infancy.





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