An Imitation of Spenser Golden Apollo, that thro heaven wide Scatterst the rays of light, and truths beams, In lucent words my darkling verses dight, And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams, That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams, All while the jocund hours in thy train Scatter their fancies at thy poets feet; And when thou yields to night thy wide domain, Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain. For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray, (For ignorance is Follys leasing nurse And love of Folly needs none others curse) Midas the praise hath gaind of lengthend ears, For which himself might deem him neer the worse To sit in council with his modern peers, And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse. And thou, Mercurius, that with wingèd brow Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky, And thro Heavns halls thy airy flight dost throw, Entering with holy feet to where on high Jove weighs the counsel of futurity; Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky, And oer the surface of the silent deep dost fly: If thou arrivest at the sandy shore Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell, Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor, Can charm to harmony with potent spell. Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore; And cause in sweet society to dwell Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell O Mercury, assist my labring sense That round the circle of the world would fly, As the wingd eagle scorns the towry fence Of Alpine hills round his high aëry, And searches thro the corners of the sky, Sports in the clouds to hear the thunders sound, And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly; Then, bosomd in an amber cloud, around Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sols palace high. And thou, O warrior maid invincible, Armd with the terrors of Almighty Jove, Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, Lovst thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, In solemn gloom of branches interwove? Or bearst thy AEgis oer the burning field, Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move? Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld The weary wanderer thro the desert rove? Or does th afflicted man thy heavnly bosom move? William Blake
Posted on: Thu, 06 Nov 2014 14:19:37 +0000
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