Pindarique Ode, A; To Incite the Author to Write on the Great Tempest in 1703

To incite the Author to write on the Great Tempest in 1703.

Heaven's dreadful voice so high, and your's so low!
Dear charming muse, why are you silent now?
You that the lofty lyra strung,
In notes as soft as ever poet sung:
You that the sacred choir can represent,
And sung dear W ILLIAM thro' the firmament:
'Tis you the lofty subject waits:
The lofty subject its own song creates.
Themes make the poets; and a thought so high
Inspires the mass of poetry:
But still the artful hand performs the best,
And meaner musick's found among the rest.
Your tow'ring fancy, lofty as the wind,
Like air capacious, and as unconfin'd,
Commands high strains; and freely sings
The storms of nations or the fall of kings:
Then teach us, heav'nly muse: for none like thee,
Can make these storms and thy soft verse agree;
Sure none like thee
Of these discording strings can make a harmony.

Then triumph in thy lofty verse;
And heaven's avenging providence rehearse.
Insult the furies; who, let loose below,
Could yet no farther go.
Then louder praises sing with awful joy,
To that all-powerful breath, which can the world destroy.
The darker works of providence describe:
This is the sacred province of the tribe.
Nor are you dedicated so in vain:
With you the heavenly muses all remain.
Strange bounty! that it should bestow
The argument, and numbers too;
And in one sacred treasure join,
What seldom can together shine:
The poet rarely meets in the divine.

Could I perform the part I see remains;
Had I the voice, the words, the heavenly strains;
I'd lead the way, and so invite
You, who by far know better how to write.
But me nor wit, nor art inspire,
To raise my humbl'd fancy higher:
I'm not a member of the sacred choir.
I blush to sing my humble part,
Barren of wit, barren of art:
Among the tuneful tribe I claim no place;
And hardly reach to touch the base.

While you the sacred hymns of praise rehearse,
And write sublimer thoughts in your immortal verse;
While you the fatal night record,
And sing the terrors of the Lord;
The noblest text improve, and show
The cause of winds, the how, and why they blow;
Describe the fury of the element,
And all the dark disasters represent:
I'll let my satirs loose upon the crimes,
And scourge the people who debauch the times:
I'll draw the strange amazing scenes:
Their crimes may tell them what the tempest means.
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