The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Praise of Pindar. In imitation of Horace's second Ode, B. IV.
THE PRAISE OF PINDAR.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE'S SECOND ODE, B. IV.
"Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari, &c."
Pindar is imitable by none;
The Phœnix Pindar is a vast species alone.
Who e'er but Dædalus with waxen wings could fly,
And neither sink too low nor soar too high?
What could he who follow'd claim,
But of vain boldness the unhappy fame,
And by his fall a sea to name?
Pindar's unnavigable song
Like a swoln flood from some steep mountain pours along;
The ocean meets with such a voice,
From his enlarged mouth, as drowns the ocean's noise.
The Phœnix Pindar is a vast species alone.
Who e'er but Dædalus with waxen wings could fly,
And neither sink too low nor soar too high?
What could he who follow'd claim,
But of vain boldness the unhappy fame,
And by his fall a sea to name?
Pindar's unnavigable song
Like a swoln flood from some steep mountain pours along;
The ocean meets with such a voice,
From his enlarged mouth, as drowns the ocean's noise.
So Pindar does new words and figures roll
Down his impetuous dithyrambick tide,
Which in no channel deigns t' abide,
Which neither banks nor dykes control:
Whether th' immortal Gods he sings,
In a no less immortal strain,
Or the great acts of God-descended kings,
Who in his numbers still survive and reign;
Each rich-embroider'd line,
Which their triumphant brows around
By his sacred hand is bound,
Does all their starry diadems outshine.
Down his impetuous dithyrambick tide,
Which in no channel deigns t' abide,
Which neither banks nor dykes control:
Whether th' immortal Gods he sings,
In a no less immortal strain,
Or the great acts of God-descended kings,
Who in his numbers still survive and reign;
Each rich-embroider'd line,
Which their triumphant brows around
By his sacred hand is bound,
Does all their starry diadems outshine.
Whether at Pisa's race he please
To carve in polish'd verse the conqueror's images;
Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong,
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song;
Whether some brave young man's untimely fate,
In words worth dying for, he celebrate—
Such mournful, and such pleasing words,
As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief affords—
He bids him live and grow in fame;
Among the stars he sticks his name;
The grave can but the dross of him devour,
So small is Death's, so great the Poet's, power!
To carve in polish'd verse the conqueror's images;
Whether the swift, the skilful, or the strong,
Be crowned in his nimble, artful, vigorous song;
Whether some brave young man's untimely fate,
In words worth dying for, he celebrate—
Such mournful, and such pleasing words,
As joy to his mother's and his mistress' grief affords—
He bids him live and grow in fame;
Among the stars he sticks his name;
The grave can but the dross of him devour,
So small is Death's, so great the Poet's, power!
Lo, how th' obsequious wind, and swelling air,
The Theban swan does upwards bear
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play,
And with extended wings opens his liquid way!
Whilst, alas! my timorous Muse
Unambitious tracks pursues;
Does with weak, unballast wings,
About the mossy brooks and springs,
About the trees' new-blossom'd heads,
About the gardens' painted beds,
About the fields and flowery meads,
And all inferior beauteous things,
Like the laborious bee,
For little drops of honey flee,
And there with humble sweets contents her industry.
The Theban swan does upwards bear
Into the walks of clouds, where he does play,
And with extended wings opens his liquid way!
Whilst, alas! my timorous Muse
Unambitious tracks pursues;
Does with weak, unballast wings,
About the mossy brooks and springs,
About the trees' new-blossom'd heads,
About the gardens' painted beds,
About the fields and flowery meads,
And all inferior beauteous things,
Like the laborious bee,
For little drops of honey flee,
And there with humble sweets contents her industry.