An Ode to James, Earl of Desmond

Where art thou, Genius? I should use
Thy present aid: arise Invention,
Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse,
To tower with my intention
High as his mind, that doth advance
Her upright head, above the reach of chance,
Or the times envy.
Cynthius, I apply
My bolder numbers to thy golden lyre:
O then inspire
Thy priest in this strange rapture! heat my brain
With Delphic fire,
That I may sing my thoughts in some unvulgar strain.

Rich beam of honour, shed your light
On these dark rhymes, that my affection
May shine, through every chink, to every sight,
Graced by your reflection!
Then shall my verses, like strong charms,
Break the knit circle of her stony arms,
That holds your spirit,
And keeps your merit
Lock'd in her cold embraces, from the view
Of eyes more true,
Who would with judgment search, searching conclude,
As prov'd in you,
True noblesse. Palm grows straight, though handled ne'er so rude.

Nor think yourself unfortunate;
If subject to the jealous errors
Of politic pretext, that wries a state,
Sink not beneath these terrors:
But whisper, O glad innocence,
Where only a man's birth is his offence;
Or the disfavour
Of such as savour
Nothing, but practise upon honour's thrall.
O virtue's fall!
When her dead essence, like the anatomy
In Surgeons' hall,
Is but a statist's theme to read phlebotomy.

Let Brontes, and black Steropes,
Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;
Pyracmon's hour will come to give them ease,
Though but while the metal's heating:
And, after all the Ætnaean ire,
Gold, that is perfect, will outlive the fire.
For fury wasteth,
As patience lasteth.
No armour to the mind! he is shot-free
From injury,
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;
So fools, we see,
Oft scape an imputation, more through luck than wit.

But to yourself, most loyal lord,
(Whose heart in that bright sphere flames clearest,
Though many gems be in your bosom stor'd,
Unknown which is the dearest.)
If I auspiciously divine,
As my hope tells, that our fair Phoebe's shine,
Shall light those places
With lustrous graces,
Where darkness, with her gloomy scepter'd hand,
Doth now command;
O then, my best-best lov'd let me importune,
That you will stand,
As far from all revolt, as you are now from fortune.