Analysis of To My Dear Friend Mr. E[ldred] R[evett]. On His Poems Moral
Cleft as the top of the inspired hill,
Struggles the soul of my divided quill,
Whilst this foot doth the watry mount aspire,
That Sinai's living and enlivening fire,
Behold my powers storm'd by a twisted light
O' th' Sun and his, first kindled his sight,
And my lost thoughts invoke the prince of day,
My right to th' spring of it and him do pray.
Say, happy youth, crown'd with a heav'nly ray
Of the first flame, and interwreathed bay,
Inform my soul in labour to begin,
Ios or Anthems, Poeans or a Hymne.
Shall I a hecatombe on thy tripod slay,
Or my devotions at thy altar pay?
While which t' adore th' amaz'd world cannot tell,
The sublime Urim or deep oracle.
Heark! how the moving chords temper our brain,
As when Apollo serenades the main,
Old Ocean smooths his sullen furrow'd front,
And Nereids do glide soft measures on't;
Whilst th' air puts on its sleekest, smoothest face,
And each doth turn the others looking-glasse;
So by the sinewy lyre now strook we see
Into soft calms all storm of poesie,
And former thundering and lightning lines,
And verse now in its native lustre shines.
How wert thou hid within thyself! how shut!
Thy pretious Iliads lock'd up in a nut!
Not hearing of thee thou dost break out strong,
Invading forty thousand men in song;
And we, secure in our thin empty heat,
Now find ourselves at once surprised and beat,
Whilst the most valiant of our wits now sue,
Fling down their arms, ask quarter too of you.
So cabin'd up in its disguis'd coarse rust,
And scurf'd all ore with its unseemly crust,
The diamond, from 'midst the humbler stones,
Sparkling shoots forth the price of nations.
Ye safe unriddlers of the stars, pray tell,
By what name shall I stamp my miracle?
Thou strange inverted Aeson, that leap'st ore
From thy first infancy into fourscore,
That to thine own self hast the midwife play'd,
And from thy brain spring'st forth the heav'nly maid!
Thou staffe of him bore him, that bore our sins,
Which, but set down, to bloom and bear begins!
Thou rod of Aaron, with one motion hurl'd,
Bud'st a perfume of flowers through the world!
You strange calcined seeds within a glass,
Each species Idaea spring'st as 'twas!
Bright vestal flame that, kindled but ev'n now,
For ever dost thy sacred fires throw!
Thus the repeated acts of Nestor's age,
That now had three times ore out-liv'd the stage,
And all those beams contracted into one,
Alcides in his cradle hath outdone.
But all these flour'shing hiews, with which I die
Thy virgin paper, now are vain as I:
For 'bove the poets Heav'n th' art taught to shine
And move, as in thy proper crystalline;
Whence that mole-hill Parnassus thou dost view,
And us small ants there dabbling in its dew;
Whence thy seraphic soul such hymns doth play,
As those to which first danced the first day,
Where with a thorn from the world-ransoming wreath
Thou stung, dost antiphons and anthems breathe;
Where with an Angels quil dip'd i' th' Lambs blood,
Thou sing'st our Pelicans all-saving flood,
And bath'st thy thoughts in ever-living streams,
Rench'd from earth's tainted, fat and heavy steams.
There move translated youth inroll'd i' th' quire,
That only doth with wholy lays inspire;
To whom his burning coach Eliah sent,
And th' royal prophet-priest his harp hath lent;
Which thou dost tune in consort unto those
Clap wings for ever at each hallow'd close:
Whilst we, now weak and fainting in our praise,
Sick echo ore thy Halleluiahs.
Scheme | AABXCCDD DDEEDDFG HHXIJJIJKK LLMMNNOO PPXXFGXBQQRRSSXXXX TTUU VVWWOODDXXXXYYBBZZXXXJ |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1101100101 1001110101 1111010101 11100010010 01110110101 11110111011 0111010111 111111110111 110111011 1011011 011101101 101101101 11011111 11111101 1110111011101 001111100 11010110101 11010101 1101110101 011111011 111111110101 0111010101 11010011111 01111111 0101000101 0110110101 111101111 11111001 1101111111 0101010101 01010101101 11001110101 10110110111 1111110111 111010111 0111110101 0101101001 101101110 11110111 1111111100 1101011111 111100011 111111011 0111111011 11111111101 1111110101 1111011101 11001110101 11110101 11011111 11011101111 1101110101 100101111 1111111101 0111100011 10110111 11110111111 1101011111 110101111111 011011010 111110111 01111100011 11111111 111111011 110110111 111100101 111101111111 111101001101 01111010101 1111010101 11010111111 110111101 11110111 011101011111 1111001101 1111011101 11110100101 110111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,360 |
Words | 608 |
Sentences | 21 |
Stanzas | 7 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 10, 8, 18, 4, 22 |
Lines Amount | 78 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 381 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 87 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:11 min read
- 27 Views
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"To My Dear Friend Mr. E[ldred] R[evett]. On His Poems Moral" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 21 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/30272/to-my-dear-friend-mr.-e%5Bldred%5D-r%5Bevett%5D.-on-his-poems-moral>.
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