Classic Poem

ODE XV

1

Unsatisfyed with Earth
(Where Greife, and thousand Troubles intermixe
With some poor seeming Mirth)
I put on wings; and mounting higher, fixe
On fairer objects. See the great
Rector of nature, and the universe
His gifts disperse,
In everie kind; and all his bounties meet
To make a Harmonie compleat.

2

This Power, which Nature rules,
And the whole world, is the great God of Power;
The God, which antique Schooles
Have aymed at; the God which wee Adore;
Whose Misterie, Stupendious height
Includes; the object of our Faith alone;
For he were none,
If Reason could unfold him, to our Sight;
And to fraile Sence, display that Light.

3

Oh Infinite! beyond the Quill
Of nature, or her Servant, to display;
Whose Power, is but to will
To whom the Earth, the Sea, and Heavens obay.
How shall I dare, to bring a verse
Before thy Throne of Glorie? Oh, despise
Not what shall rise
From a full Soule; though Sinfull Lips reherse
The Tenor; doe not shut thy Ears.

4

Oh, doe not shut thy Ears,
Offended with my Song; but let my Zeale
Thy Anger and my Fears
Prevent; let thy indulgent Mercie heale
The boyling ulcer, of my Sin;
And yet in Time, repaire the Soon-decay
Of thy wrought Clay.
A despised Shred of mankind, who has bin
Made clean before, Oh, cleanse agin.

5

Then will I bring to thee
My Himnes of Praise; and Celebrate thy Name;
In the best Poesie
My humble Thoughts, or Zealous fires can frame;
This, all the Tribute I can bring;
And though it be above all Taske, of verse,
I must reherse
Something to thee: the widdow can but fling
Her mites, nor I alas, but Sing.

6

Naught have I else to give;
Nor can I give it; onlie thine repay
Whose breath, first made me Live;
And gave me Being, in noe obscure way;
Noe vegetable Plant, nor Beast,
But noblest of thy Creatures, made me man,
And Christian;
Borne in the Light of Truth, where glories feast
The Soule, in Sempeternall Rest.

7

Thou, hast redeemed Mee
From double Death, and the Strict covenant
Is cancelled by thee;
Wee have a freedome, which old Times did want;
Thou hast secured me, from the wombe
Unto this Minute; that I now may praise
For all the Dayes
I have compleated, and the Time to come,
Thy mercie, to the Tombe.

8

Then let my Quill Aspire
In mightie Numbers; and thy mercies Sing
A Himne, the Soule to fire
In joyfull Rapture. Oh, could frailtie bring
Those liveing heights of Poesie,
Which Fancie faine would flatter witt into,
Here they might flow:
But wee are Silent; all our Streames are Drye;
Our Quills are Stopt, or Idlye lye.

9

Yet, will I once assay,
To honour thee, in Straines of humble Rhime;
Suffice it, if I pay
A gratefull Tribute. Hee, who guides the Time,
Expects from man, some howers t'applye
His worke: indeed his owne; for what wee give
To him, shall live
Our richest Store, when our fraile Bodies Dye,
And in the Grave, forgotten lye.