TO MY REVEREND FRIEND, DR. SAM. WOODFORD, ON HIS VERSION OF THE PSALMS by THOMAS FLATMAN

@3Stanza@1 I.
SEE (worthy friend) what I would do
(Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire),
That have no friend in all the sacred quire,
To show my kindness for your Book, and you,
Forc'd to disparage what I would admire;
Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now,
Since the great Pindar's greatest Son
From the ingrateful age is gone,
Cowley has bid th' ingrateful age adieu;
Apollo's rare Columbus, he
Found out new worlds of Poesy:
He, like an eagle, soar'd aloft,
To seize his noble prey;
Yet as a dove's, his soul was soft,
Quiet as Night, but bright as Day:
To Heaven in a fiery chariot he
Ascended by seraphic Poetry;
Yet which of us dull mortals since can find
Any inspiring mantle, that he left behind?

II.

His powerful numbers might have done you right;
He could have spar'd you immortality,
Under that Chieftain's banners you might fight
Assur'd of laurels, and of victory
Over devouring Time and sword and fire
And Jove's important ire:
My humble verse would better sing
David the Shepherd, than the King:
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one
(Though of the meaner sort)
Of them that may approach a Prince's throne,
If 'twere but to be seen at Court.
Such, Sir, is my ambition for a name,
Which I shall rather take from you, than give,
For in your Book I cannot miss of fame,
But by contact shall live.
Thus on your chariot wheel shall I
Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's fly,
Who from th' Olympian Race new come,
And now triumphantly flown home,
To's neighbours of the swarm thus proudly said,
@3Don't you remember what a dust I made!@1

III.

Where'er the Son of Jesse's harp shall sound,
Or Israel's sweetest songs be sung,
(Like Samson's lion sweet and strong)
You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd,
To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes
His last deliverance from all his foes.
Blood-thirsty Saul, less barbarous than they,
His person only sought to kill;
These would his deathless poems slay,
And sought immortal blood to spill,
To sing whose songs in Babylon would be
A new Captivity:
Deposed by these rebels, you alone
Restor'd the glorious David to his throne.
Long in disguise the royal Prophet lay,
Long from his own thoughts banished,
Ne'er since his death till this illustrious day
Was sceptre in his hand, or crown plac'd on his head:
He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin
As once before proud Achish he appear'd,
His face besmear'd,
With spittle on his sacred beard,
A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine.
Drest in their rhymes, he look'd as he were mad,
In tissue you, and Tyrian purple have him clad.

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