Ode to Oblivion

Parent of Ease! Oblivion old,
Who lov'st thy dwelling-place to hold.
Where scepter'd Pluto keeps his dreary sway,
Whose sullen pride the shiv'ring ghosts obey!

Thou, who delightest still to dwell
By some hoar and moss-grown cell,
At whose dank foot Cocytus joys to roll,
Or Styx' black streams, which even Jove controul!
Or if it suit thy better will
To chuse the tinkling weeping rill,
Hard by whose side the seeded poppy red
Heaves high in air his sweetly curling head,
While, creeping in meanders slow,
Lethe's drowzy waters flow,
And hollow blasts, which never cease to sigh,
Hum to each care-struck mind their lulla-lulla-by!
A prey no longer let me be
To that gossip, MEMORY,
Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To spread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With Thee, OBLIVION, let me go,
For MEMORY'S a friend to woe;
With thee, FORGETFULNESS, fair silent Queen,
The solemn stole of grief is never seen.

All, all is thine. Thy pow'rful sway
The throng'd poetic hosts obey.
Tho' in the van of MEM'RY proud t' appear,
At thy command they darken in the rear.
What tho' the modern Tragic strain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet thro' the Nine, like whelps of currish kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
Sacred to Thee the Crambo Rhime,
The motley forms of Pantomime:
For Thee from Eunuch's throat still loves to flow
The soothing sadness of his warbled woe:
Each day to Thee falls Pamphlet clean:
Each month a new-born Magazine:
Hear then, O GODDESS, hear thy vot'ry's pray'r!
And, if Thou deign'st to take one moment's care,
Attend Thy Bard! who duly pays
The tribute of his votive lays;
Whose Muse still offers at thy sacred shrine;—
Thy Bard, who calls THEE His, and makes Him THINE.
O, sweet FORGETFULLNESS, supreme
Rule supine o'er ev'ry theme,
O'er each sad subject, o'er each soothing strain,
Of mine, O GODDESS, stretch thine awful reign!
Nor let MEM'RY steal one note,
Which this rude hand to Thee hath wrote!
So shalt thou save me from the Poet's shame,
Tho' on the letter'd Rubric DODSLEY post my Name.

O come! with opiate poppies crown'd,
Shedding slumbers soft around!
O come! FAT GODDESS, drunk with Laureat's Sack!—
See, where she sits on the benumb'd Torpedo's back!
Me, in thy dull Elysium lapt, O bless
With thy calm Forgetfulness!
And gently lull my senses all the while
With placid poems in the sinking stile!
Whether the Herring-Poet sing,
Great Laureat of the Fishes' King,
Or Lycophron prophetic rave his fill,
Wrapt in the darker strains of Johnny—;
Or, if HE sing, whose verse affords
A bevy of the choicest words,
Who meets his Lady Muse by moss-grown cell,
Adorn'd with epithet and tinkling bell:
These, GODDESS, let me still forget,
With all the dearth of Modern Wit!
So may'st Thou gently o'er my youthful breast
Spread, with thy welcome hand, OBLIVION'S friendly vest.