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Title: To Himself And The Harp
Author: Michael Drayton [
More Titles by Drayton]
And why not I, as he
That's greatest, if as free,
(In sundry strains that strive,
Since there so many be)
Th'old Lyrick kind revive?
I will, yea, and I may;
Who shall oppose my way?
For what is he alone,
That of himself can say,
He's Heir of Helicon?
APOLLO, and the Nine,
Forbid no Man their Shrine,
That commeth with hands pure;
Else be they so divine,
They will not him indure.
For they be such coy Things,
That they care not for Kings,
And dare let them know it;
Nor may he touch their Springs,
That is not born a Poet.
The Phocean it did prove,
Whom when foule Lust did move,
Those Maids unchast to make,
Fell, as with them he strove,
His Neck and justly brake.
That instrument ne'r heard,
Strooke by the skilfull Bard,
It strongly to awake;
But it th' infernals skard,
And made Olympus quake.
As those Prophetike strings
Whose sounds with fiery Wings,
Drave Fiends from their abode,
Touch'd by the best of Kings,
That sang the holy Ode.
So his, which Women slue,
And it int' Hebrus threw,
Such sounds yet forth it sent,
The Bankes to weep that drue,
As downe the stream it went.
That by the Tortoyse shell,
To MAYAS Son it fell,
The most thereof not doubt
But sure some Power did dwell,
In Him who found it out.
The Wildest of the field,
And Aire, with Rivers t'yeeld,
Which mov'd; that sturdy Glebes,
And massy Oaks could weeld,
To raise the pyles of Thebes.
And diuersly though Strung,
So anciently We sung,
To it, that Now scarce known,
If first it did belong
To Greece, or if our Own.
The Druydes imbrew'd,
With Gore, on Altars rude
With Sacrifices crown'd,
In hollow Woods bedew'd,
Ador'd the Trembling sound.
Though wee be All to seek,
Of PINDAR that Great Greek,
To Finger it aright,
The Soul with power to strike,
His hand retain'd such Might.
Or him that Rome did grace
Whose Airs we all imbrace,
That scarcely found his Peer,
Nor giveth PHOEBUS place,
For Strokes divinely clear.
The Irish I admire,
And still cleave to that Lyre,
As our Music's Mother,
And think, till I expire,
APOLLO'S such another.
As Britons, that so long
Have held this Antike Song,
And let all our Carpers
Forbear their fame to wrong,
Th'are right skilfull Harpers.
Southern, I long thee spare,
Yet wish thee well to fare,
Who me pleased'st greatly,
As first, therefore more rare,
Handling thy Harp neatly.
To those that with despight
Shall term these Numbers slight,
Tell them their Judgement's blind,
Much erring from the right,
It is a Noble kind.
Nor is 't the Verse doth make,
That giveth, or doth take,
'Tis possible to clime,
To kindle, or to slake,
Although in SKELTON'S Ryme.
[The end]
Michael Drayton's poem: To Himself And The Harp
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