The Poetical Works of Edward Young | Page 4

her next labour ardently pursues.
Book II.
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PHOCYL.
----We hope that the departed will rise again from the dust: after which,
like the gods, they will be immortal.
Now man awakes, and from his silent bed,
Where he has slept for
ages, lifts his head;
Shakes off the slumber of ten thousand years,

And on the borders of new worlds appears.
Whate'er the bold, the
rash, adventure cost,
In wide eternity I dare be lost.
The muse is
wont in narrow bounds to sing,
To teach the swain, or celebrate the
king.
I grasp the whole, no more to parts confin'd,
I lift my voice,
and sing to humankind:
I sing to men and angels; angels join,
While
such the theme, their sacred songs with mine.
Again the trumpet's
intermitted sound
Rolls the wide circuit of creation round,
A
universal concourse to prepare
Of all that ever breath'd the vital air:

In some wide field, which active whirlwinds sweep,
Drive cities,
forests, mountains, to the deep,
To smooth and lengthen out th'

unbounded space,
And spread an area for all human race.
Now
monuments prove faithful to their trust,
And render back their long
committed dust.
Now charnels rattle; scatter'd limbs, and all
The
various bones, obsequious to the call,
Self-mov'd, advance; the neck
perhaps to meet
The distant head; the distant legs the feet.
Dreadful
to view, see thro' the dusky sky
Fragments of bodies in confusion fly,

To distant regions journeying, there to claim
Deserted members,
and complete the frame.
When the world bow'd to Rome's almighty
sword,
Rome bow'd to Pompey, and confess'd her lord.
Yet one day
lost, this deity below
Became the scorn and pity of his foe.
His
blood a traitor's sacrifice was made,
And smok'd indignant on a
ruffian's blade.
No trumpet's sound, no gasping army's yell,
Bid,
with due horror, his great soul farewell.
Obscure his fall! all welt'ring
in his gore,
His trunk was cast to perish on the shore!
While Julius
frown'd the bloody monster dead,
Who brought the world in his great
rival's head.
This sever'd head and trunk shall join once more,
Tho'
realms now rise between, and oceans roar.
The trumpet's sound each
fragrant mote shall hear,
Or fix'd in earth, or if afloat in air,
Obey
the signal wafted in the wind,
And not one sleeping atom lag behind.

So swarming bees, that on a summer's day
In airy rings, and wild
meanders play,
Charm'd with the brazen sound, their wand'rings end,

And, gently circling, on a bough descend.
The body thus renew'd,
the conscious soul,
Which has perhaps been flutt'ring near the pole,

Or midst the burning planets wond'ring stray'd,
Or hover'd o'er where
her pale corpse was laid;
Or rather coasted on her final state,
And
fear'd or wish'd for her appointed fate:

This soul, returning with a
constant flame,
Now weds for ever her immortal frame.
Life, which
ran down before, so high is wound,
The springs maintain an
everlasting round.
Thus a frail model of the work design'd
First
takes a copy of the builder's mind,
Before the structure firm with
lasting oak,
And marble bowels of the solid rock,
Turns the strong
arch, and bids the columns rise,
And bear the lofty palace to the skies;

The wrongs of time enabled to surpass,
With bars of adamant, and

ribs of brass.
That ancient, sacred, and illustrious dome,(2)
Where
soon or late fair Albion's heroes come,
From camps, and courts, tho'
great, or wise, or just,
To feed the worm, and moulder into dust;

That solemn mansion of the royal dead,
Where passing slaves o'er
sleeping monarchs tread,
Now populous o'erflows: a num'rous race

Of rising kings fill all th' extended space:
A life well spent, not the
victorious sword,
Awards the crown, and styles the greater lord.

Nor monuments alone, and burial-earth,
Labours with man to this his
second birth;
But where gay palaces in pomp arise,
And