The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 1/Ode: Mr. Cowley's Book presenting itself to the University Library of Oxford

by Abraham Cowley

ODE.

MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD.

Hail, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred ark stood,
Where all the world of science does embark!
Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long with-
Insatiate Time's devouring flood.
Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well
Dost in the midst of paradise arise,
Oxford! the Muses' paradise,
From which may never sword the bless'd expel!
Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
T'enrich with interest posterity!
Hail, Wit's illustrious Galaxy!
Where thousand lights into one brightness spread;
Hail, living University of the dead!

Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er
The mighty linguist Fame, or Time, the mighty traveller,
That could speak, or this could hear.
Majestick monument and pyramid!
Where still the shades of parted souls abide
Embalm'd in verse; exalted souls which now
Enjoy those arts they woo'd so well below;
Which now all wonders plainly see,
That have been, are, or are to be,
In the mysterious library,
The beatifick Bodley of the Deity! . . . .
Will you into your sacred throng admit
The meanest British Wit?
You, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and disdain,
That I a place among you claim,
The humblest deacon of her train?
Will you allow me th' honourable chain?
The chain of ornament, which here
Your noble prisoners proudly wear;
A chain which will more pleasant seem to me
Than all my own Pindarick liberty!
Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit,
Like an Apocrypha with holy Writ?
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Whatever happy book is chained here,
No other place or people need to fear;
His chain 's a passport to go every-where.

As when a seat in heaven
Is to an unmalicious sinner given,
Who, casting round his wondering eye,
Does none but patriarchs and apostles there espy;
Martyrs who did their lives bestow,
And saints, who martyrs liv'd below;
With trembling and amazement he begins
To recollect his frailties past and sins;
He doubts almost his station there;
His soul says to itself, "How came I here?"
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$It fares no otherwise with me,
When I myself with conscious wonder see
Amidst this purify'd elected company.
With hardship they, and pain,
Did to this happiness attain:
No labour I, nor merits, can pretend;
I think predestination only was my friend.

Ah, that my author had been ty'd like me
To such a place and such a company!
Instead of several countries, several men,
And business, which the Muses hate,
He might have then improv'd that small estate
Which Nature sparingly did to him give;
He might perhaps have thriven then,
And settled upon me, his child, somewhat to live.

'T had happier been for him, as well as me;
For when all, alas! is done,
We books, I mean, You books, will prove to be
The best and noblest conversation:
For, though some errors will get in,
Like tinctures of original sin;
Yet sure we from our fathers' wit
Draw all the strength and spirit of it,
Leaving the grosser parts for conversation,
As the best blood of man's employ'd in generation.