TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE INCOMPARABLE HEROE, HENRY, PRINCE OF
WALES.
Thy tomb, arms, statue, all things fit to fall
At foot of Death, and worship funeral,
Form hath bestow’d; for form is nought too dear.
Thy solid virtues yet, eterniz’d here,
My blood and wasted spirits have only found
Commanded cost, and broke so rich a ground,
Not to inter, but make thee ever spring,
As arms, tombs, statues, ev’ry earthy thing,
Shall fade aid vanish into fume before.
What lasts thrives least; yet wealth of soul is poor,
And so ’tis kept. Not thy thrice-sacred will,
Sign’d with thy death, moves any to fulfil
Thy just bequests to me. Thou dead, then I
Live dead, for giving thee eternity.
_Ad Famam._
To all times future this time’s mark extend,
Homer no patron found, nor Chapman friend.
Ignotus nimis omnibus,
Sat notus moritur sibi.
TO THE HIGH BORN PRINCE OF MEN,
HENRY, THRICE ROYAL INHERITOR TO THE UNITED KINGDOMS OF GREAT BRITAIN,
ETC.
Since perfect happiness, by Princes sought,
Is not with birth born, nor exchequers bought,
Nor follows in great trains, nor is possest
With any outward state, but makes him blest
That governs inward, and beholdeth there
All his affections stand about him bare,
That by his pow’r can send to Tower and death
All traitorous passions, marshalling beneath
His justice his mere will, and in his mind
Holds such a sceptre as can keep confin’d
His whole life’s actions in the royal bounds
Of virtue and religion, and their grounds
Takes in to sow his honours, his delights,
And cómplete empire; you should learn these rights,
Great Prince of men, by princely precedents,
Which here, in all kinds, my true zeal presents
To furnish your youth’s groundwork and first state,
And let you see one godlike man create
All sorts of worthiest men, to be contriv’d
In your worth only, giving him reviv’d
For whose life Alexander would have giv’n
One of his kingdoms; who (as sent from heav’n,
And thinking well that so divine a creature
Would never more enrich the race of nature)
Kept as his crown his works, and thought them still
His angels, in all pow’r to rule his will;
And would affirm that Homer’s poesy
Did more advance his Asian victory,
Than all his armies. O! ’tis wond’rous much,
Though nothing priz’d, that the right virtuous touch
Of a well-written soul to virtue moves;
Nor have we souls to purpose, if their loves
Of fitting objects be not so inflam’d.
How much then were this kingdom’s main soul maim’d,
To want this great inflamer of all pow’rs
That move in human souls! All realms but yours
Are honour’d with him, and hold blest that state
That have his works to read and contemplate:
In which humanity to her height is rais’d,
Which all the world, yet none enough, hath prais’d;
Seas, earth, and heav’n, he did in verse comprise,
Out-sung the Muses, and did equalize
Their king Apollo; being so far from cause
Of Princes’ light thoughts, that their gravest laws
May find stuff to be fashion’d by his lines.
Through all the pomp of kingdoms still he shines,
And graceth all his gracers. Then let lie
Your lutes and viols, and more loftily
Make the heroics of your Homer sung,
To drums and trumpets set his angel’s tongue,
And, with the princely sport of hawks you use,
Behold the kingly flight of his high muse,
And see how, like the phœnix, she renews
Her age and starry feathers in your sun,
Thousands of years attending ev’ry one
Blowing the holy fire, and throwing in
Their seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have been
Subverted in them; laws, religions, all
Offer’d to change and greedy funeral;
Yet still your Homer, lasting, living, reigning,
And proves how firm truth builds in poet’s feigning.
A prince’s statue, or in marble carv’d,
Or steel, or gold, and shrin’d, to be preserv’d,
Aloft on pillars or pyramides,
Time into lowest ruins may depress;
But drawn with all his virtues in learn’d verse,
Fame shall resound them on oblivion’s hearse,
Till graves gasp with her blasts, and dead men rise.
No gold can follow where true Poesy flies.
Then let not this divinity in earth,
Dear Prince, be slighted as she were the birth
Of idle fancy, since she works so high;
Nor let her poor disposer, Learning, lie
Still bed-rid. Both which being in men defac’d,
In men with them is God’s bright image ras’d;
For as the Sun and Moon are figures giv’n
Of his refulgent Deity in heav’n,
So Learning, and, her light’ner, Poesy,
In earth present His fiery Majesty.
Nor are kings like Him, since their diadems
Thunder and lighten and project brave beams,
But since they His clear virtues emulate,
In truth and justice imaging His state,
In bounty and humanity since they shine,
Than which is nothing like Him more divine;
Not fire, not light, the sun’s admiréd course,
The rise nor set of stars, nor all their force
In us and all this cope beneath the sky,
Nor great existence, term’d His treasury;
Since not for being greatest He is blest,
But being just, and in all virtues best.
What sets His justice and His truth best forth,
Best Prince, then use best, which is Poesy’s worth;
For, as great princes, well inform’d and deck’d
With gracious virtue, give more sure effect
To her persuasions, pleasures, real worth,
Than all th’ inferior subjects she sets forth;
Since there she shines at full, hath birth, wealth, state,
Pow’r, fortune, honour, fit to elevate
Her heav’nly merits, and so fit they are,
Since she was made for them, and they for her;
So Truth, with Poesy grac’d, is fairer far,
More proper, moving, chaste, and regular,
Than when she runs away with untruss’d Prose;
Proportion, that doth orderly dispose
Her virtuous treasure, and is queen of graces;
In Poesy decking her with choicest phrases,
Figures and numbers; when loose Prose puts on
Plain letter-habits makes her trot upon
Dull earthly business, she being mere divine;
Holds her to homely cates and harsh hedge-wine,
That should drink Poesy’s nectar; ev’ry way
One made for other, as the sun and day,
Princes and virtues. And, as in spring,
The pliant water mov’d with anything
Let fall into it, puts her motion out
In perfect circles, that move round about
The gentle fountain, one another raising;
So Truth and Poesy work; so Poesy, blazing
All subjects fall’n in her exhaustless fount,
Works most exactly, makes a true account
Of all things to her high discharges giv’n,
Till all be circular and round as heav’n.
And lastly, great Prince, mark and pardon me:—
As in a flourishing and ripe fruit-tree,
Nature hath made the bark to save the bole,
The bole the sap, the sap to deck the whole
With leaves and branches, they to bear and shield
The useful fruit, the fruit itself to yield
Guard to the kernel, and for that all those,
Since out of that again the whole tree grows;
So in our tree of man, whose nervy root
Springs in his top, from thence ev’n to his foot
There runs a mutual aid through all his parts,
All join’d in one to serve his queen of arts,[1]
In which doth Poesy like the kernel lie
Obscur’d, though her Promethean faculty
Can create men and make ev’n death to live,
For which she should live honour’d, kings should give
Comfort and help to her that she might still
Hold up their spirits in virtue, make the will
That governs in them to the pow’r conform’d,
The pow’r to justice, that the scandals, storm’d
Against the poor dame, clear’d by your fair grace,
Your grace may shine the clearer. Her low place,
Not showing her, the highest leaves obscure.
Who raise her raise themselves, and he sits sure
Whom her wing’d hand advanceth, since on it
Eternity doth, crowning virtue, sit.
All whose poor seed, like violets in their beds,
Now grow with bosom-hung and hidden heads;
For whom I must speak, though their fate convinces
Me worst of poets, to you best of princes.
By the most humble and faithful implorer for all
the graces to your highness eternized
by your divine Homer.
Geo. Chapman.
[1] Queen of arts—the soul.
TO THE SACRED FOUNTAIN OF PRINCES, SOLE EMPRESS OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE,
ANNE, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, ETC.
With whatsoever honour we adorn
Your royal issue, we must gratulate you,
Imperial Sovereign; who of you is born
Is you, one tree make both the bole and bow.
If it be honour then to join you both
To such a pow’rful work as shall defend
Both from foul death and age’s ugly moth,
This is an honour that shall never end.
They know not virtue then, that know not what
The virtue of defending virtue is;
It comprehends the guard of all your State,
And joins your greatness to as great a bliss.
Shield virtue and advance her then, great Queen,
And make this book your glass to make it seen.
Your Majesty’s in all subjection most
humbly consecrate,
GEO. CHAPMAN.