Thus, like thy golden chain on high,
Thy praise unites the earth and sky.
Source of light, thou bidft the fun
On his burning axle run;
The ftars like duft around him fly,
And show the area of the sky.
He drives fo fwift his race above,
Mortals can't perceive him move;
So fmooth his courfe, oblique or ftrait,
Olympus fhakes not with his weight.
As the queen of folemn night
Fills at his vafe her orb of light,
Imparted luftre; thus we fee
The folar virtue fhines by thee.
Eirefione we'll no more,
Imaginary power, adore;
Since oil, and wool, and cheering wine,
And life-fustaining bread are thine.
Thy herbage, O great Pan, fuftains
The flocks that graze our Attic plains;
The olive, with fresh verdure crown'd,
Rifes pregnant from the ground;
*See Homer's Iliad, book 8. the beginning.
This word fignifies an olive-branch, wrapt round with wool, and ornamented with grapes, and different kinds of fruits, which the antients used to hang before the doors of their houfes, by way of charm, to prevent famine.
At thy command it fhoots and fprings,
And a thousand bleffings brings.
Minerva only is thy mind,
Wisdom and bounty to mankind.
The fragrant thyme, the bloomy rose,
Herb, and flower, and fhrub that
On Theffalian Tempe's plain,
Or where the rich Sabeans reign,
That treat the tafte, or fmell, or fight,
For food, for med'cine, or delight:
Planted by thy parent care,
Spring, and fmile, and flourish there.
Oye nurfes of foft dreams,
Reedy brooks, and winding ftreams,
Or murmuring o'er the pebbles sheen,
Or fliding thro' the meadows green,
Or where thro' matted fedge you creep,
Travelling to your parent deep :
Sound his praife, by whom you rofe,
That sea, which neither ebbs nor flows.
O ye immortal woods and groves,
Which th' enamour'd ftudent loves;
Beneath whofe venerable fhade,
For thought and friendly converfe made,
Fam'd Hecadem, old hero, lies,
Whose shrine is shaded from the skies,
Frobably this word means Cadmus.
And thro' the gloom of filent night
Projects from far its trembling light;
You, whose roots descend as low,
As high in air your branches grow;
Your leafy arms to heaven extend,
Bend your heads, in homage bend:
Cedars and pines that wave above,
And mighty oaks belov'd of Jove;
Omen, monster, prodigy,
Or nothing are, or Jove from thee!
Whether various nature play,
Or reinvers'd thy will obey,
And to rebel man declare
Famine, plague, or wasteful war.
Laugh, ye profane, who dare defpife
The threatening vengeance of the skies,
Whilst the pious, on his guard,
Undifmay'd is ftill prepar'd:
Life or death, his mind's at reft,
Since what thou fend'st muft needs be beft.
No evil can from thee proceed:
'Tis only fuffer'd, not decreed.
Darkness is not from the fun,
Nor mount the fhades till he is gone:
Then does night obscene arise
From Erebus, and fill the skies,
Fantastic forms the air invade,
Daughters of nothing, and of fhade,
Can we forget thy guardian care,
Slow to punish, prone to spare!
Thou break'st the haughty Perfian's pride,
That dar'd old Ocean's power deride ;
Their fhipwrecks ftrew'd th' Eubean wave,
At Marathon they found a grave.
Oye bleft Greeks who there expir'd,
For Greece with pious ardor fir'd,
What fhrines or altars fhall we raise
To fecure your endless praife?
Or need we monuments fupply,
To rescue what can never die ?
* a greater hero far
And yet
(Unless great Socrates could err).
Shall rife to bless fome future day,
And teach to live, and teach to pray.
Come, unknown inftructor, come!
Our leaping hearts shall make thee room:
Thou with Jove our vows shall share,
Of Jove and thee we are the care.
O father, king, whose heavenly face
Shines ferene on all thy race,
We thy magnificence adore,
And thy well-known aid implore:
Nor vainly for thy help we call;
Nor can we want: for thou art all!
*The Meffiah, foretold by Socrates.
F 4
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK,
Reat father of the fkies, whose boundless sway,
Both gods above, and worlds below obey. Thy laws fuftain the univerfal frame,
Various thy titles, but thy power the fame.
Hail, fovereign Jove! all nations shall addrefs
Their fongs to thee, who gave them tongues to blefs..
Behold thy image groveling on the earth,
Faint echoes of thy voice, which gave us birth:
Then back will I reflect thy praises still,
And fing the wonders of almighty skill.
The wide expanse of yon etherial plain,
And all below, is fubject to thy reign.
* Cleanthes, the author of this hymn, was a ftoic philofopher, a difciple of Zeno. He wrote many pieces, none of which are come down to us, but this and a few fragments, which are printed by H. Stephens, in a collection of philofophical poems. This hymn muft give every fenfible man pleasure, to find fuch just sentiments of the deity in a hea then, and fo much poetry in a philofopher.
|