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Best Famous Pindaric Ode Poems

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Written by Thomas Gray | Create an image from this poem

The Bard

 Pindaric Ode

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quiv'ring lance.
On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er cold Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air) And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
"Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep.
They do not sleep.
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
"Weave, the warp! and weave, the woof! The winding sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
"Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone.
He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his ev'ning prey.
"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof.
The thread is spun.
) Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove.
The work is done.
) Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail! "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heav'n her many-coloured wings.
"The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
In buskined measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see The diff'rent doom our fates assign.
Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; To triumph and to die are mine.
" He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.


Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

A Pindaric Ode

 THE TURN
Brave infant of Saguntum, clear
Thy coming forth in that great year,
When the prodigious Hannibal did crown
His rage with razing your immortal town.
Thou looking then about, Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return, And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn.
How summ'd a circle didst thou leave mankind Of deepest lore, could we the centre find! THE COUNTER-TURN Did wiser nature draw thee back, From out the horror of that sack; Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right, Lay trampled on? The deeds of death and night Urg'd, hurried forth, and hurl'd Upon th' affrighted world; Sword, fire and famine with fell fury met, And all on utmost ruin set: As, could they but life's miseries foresee, No doubt all infants would return like thee.
THE STAND For what is life, if measur'd by the space, Not by the act? Or masked man, if valu'd by his face, Above his fact? Here's one outliv'd his peers And told forth fourscore years: He vexed time, and busied the whole state; Troubled both foes and friends; But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fall'n or stood! For three of his four score he did no good.
THE TURN He enter'd well, by virtuous parts Got up, and thriv'd with honest arts; He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honours then, And had his noble name advanc'd with men; But weary of that flight, He stoop'd in all men's sight To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, And sunk in that dead sea of life, So deep, as he did then death's waters sup, But that the cork of title buoy'd him up.
THE COUNTER-TURN Alas, but Morison fell young! He never fell,--thou fall'st, my tongue.
He stood, a soldier to the last right end, A perfect patriot and a noble friend; But most, a virtuous son.
All offices were done By him, so ample, full, and round, In weight, in measure, number, sound, As, though his age imperfect might appear, His life was of humanity the sphere.
THE STAND Go now, and tell out days summ'd up with fears, And make them years; Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage, To swell thine age; Repeat of things a throng, To show thou hast been long, Not liv'd; for life doth her great actions spell, By what was done and wrought In season, and so brought To light: her measures are, how well Each syllabe answer'd, and was form'd, how fair; These make the lines of life, and that's her air.
THE TURN It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: A lily of a day Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall and die that night, It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.
THE COUNTER-TURN Call, noble Lucius, then, for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine; Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age, Possest with holy rage, To see that bright eternal day; Of which we priests and poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memory, and Ben THE STAND Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went Himself, to rest, Or taste a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest, In this bright asterism, Where it were friendship's schism, Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry, To separate these twi{-} Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry.
But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in heav'n, this light on earth must shine.
THE TURN And shine as you exalted are; Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union, and those not by chance Made, or indenture, or leas'd out t' advance The profits for a time.
No pleasures vain did chime, Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts, Orgies of drink, or feign'd protests; But simple love of greatness and of good, That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.
THE COUNTER-TURN This made you first to know the why You lik'd, then after, to apply That liking; and approach so one the t'other Till either grew a portion of the other; Each styled by his end, The copy of his friend.
You liv'd to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the virtue: nothing perfect done, But as a Cary or a Morison.
THE STAND And such a force the fair example had, As they that saw The good and durst not practise it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind; Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written not in words: And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, Whose lines her rolls were, and records; Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin, Had sow'd these fruits, and got the harvest in.
Written by Thomas Gray | Create an image from this poem

The Progress of Poesy

 A Pindaric Ode

Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers that round them blow Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of Music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign; Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
Oh! Sov'reign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curbed the fury of his car, And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Tempered to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day, With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime that float upon the air In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night and all her sickly dews, Her sceptres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.
In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight gloom To cheer the shivering Native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Maeander's amber waves In lingering lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish! Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around; Ev'ry shade and hallowed fountain Murmured deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, Oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon strayed, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
"This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
" Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where Angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more— Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrowed of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things