To The Royal Society

I.

Philosophy the great and only heir

Of all that human knowledge which has bin

Unforfeited by man’s rebellious sin,

Though full of years he do appear,

(Philosophy, I say, and call it, he,

For whatso’ere the painter’s fancy be,

It a male-virtue seems to me)

Has still been kept in nonage till of late,

Nor manag’d or enjoy’d his vast estate:

Three or four thousand years one would have thought,

To ripeness and perfection might have brought

A science so well bred and nurst,

And of such hopeful parts too at the first.

But, oh, the guardians and the tutors then,

(Some negligent, and some ambitious men)

Would ne’er consent to set him free,

Or his own natural powers to let him see,

Lest that should put an end to their authority.

II.

That his own business he might quite forget,

They’ amus’d him with the sports of wanton wit,

With the desserts of poetry they fed him,

Instead of solid meats t’ encrease his force;

Instead of vigorous exercise they led him

Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse:

Instead of carrying him to see

The riches which do hoarded for him lie

In Nature’s endless treasury,

They chose his eye to entertain

(His curious but not covetous eye)

With painted scenes, and pageants of the brain.

Some few exalted spirits this latter age has shown,

That labour’d to assert the liberty

(From guardians, who were now usurpers grown)

Of this old minor still, captiv’d Philosophy;

But ’twas rebellion call’d to fight

For such a long oppressed right.

Bacon at last, a mighty man, arose

Whom a wise King and Nature chose

Lord Chancellor of both their laws,

And boldly undertook the injur’d pupil’s cause.

III.

Authority, which did a body boast,

Though ’twas but air condens’d, and stalk’d about,

Like some old giant’s more gigantic ghost,

To terrify the learned rout

With the plain magic of true reason’s light,

He chas’d out of our sight,

Nor suffer’d living men to be misled

By the vain shadows of the dead:

To graves, from whence it rose, the conquer’d phantom fled;

He broke that monstrous god which stood

In midst of th’ orchard, and the whole did claim,

Which with a useless scythe of wood,

And something else not worth a name,

(Both vast for show, yet neither fit

Or to defend, or to beget;

Ridiculous and senseless terrors!) made

Children and superstitious men afraid.

The orchard’s open now, and free;

Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity;

Come, enter, all that will,

Behold the ripen’d fruit, come gather now your fill.

Yet still, methinks, we fain would be

Catching at the forbidden tree,

We would be like the Deity,

When truth and falshood, good and evil, we

Without the senses aid within our selves would see;

For ’tis God only who can find

All Nature in his mind.

IV.

From words, which are but pictures of the thought,

Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew

To things, the mind’s right object, he it brought,

Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew;

He sought and gather’d for our use the true;

And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay,

He press’d them wisely the mechanic way,

Till all their juice did in one vessel join,

Ferment into a nourishment divine,

The thirsty soul’s refreshing wine.

Who to the life an exact piece would make,

Must not from other’s work a copy take;

No, not from Rubens or Vandyke;

Much less content himself to make it like

Th’ ideas and the images which lie

In his own fancy, or his memory.

No, he before his sight must place

The natural and living face;

The real object must command

Each judgment of his eye, and motion of his hand.

From these and all long errors of the way,

In which our wand’ring predecessors went,

And like th’ old Hebrews many years did stray

In deserts but of small extent;

Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last,

The barren wilderness he past,

Did on the very border stand

Of the blest promis’d land,

And from the mountain’s top of his exalted wit,

Saw it himself, and shew’d us it.

But life did never to one man allow

Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;

Nor can so short a line sufficient be

To fathom the vast depths of Nature’s sea:

The work he did we ought t’ admire,

And were unjust if we should more require

From his few years, divided ‘twixt th’ excess

Of low affliction, and high happiness.

For who on things remote can fix his sight,

That’s always in a triumph, or a fight?

V.

From these and all long errors of the way

In which our wandering predecessors went,

And like the old Hebrews many years did stray

In deserts but of small extent,

Bacon, like Moses, led us forth at last;

The barren wilderness he passed,

Did on the very border stand

Of the best promised land,

And, from the mountain’s top of his exalted wit,

Saw it himself, and showed us it.

But life did never to one man allow

Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;

Nor can so short a line sufficient be

To fathom the vast depths of nature’s sea.

The work he did we ought to admire,

And were unjust if we should more require

From his few years, divided ‘twixt excess

Of low affliction and high happiness.

For who on things remote can fix his sight

That’s always in a triumph or a fight?

VI.

From you, great champions, we expect to get

These spacious countries but discover’d yet;

Countries where yet in stead of Nature, we

Her images and idols worshipp’d see:

These large and wealthy regions to subdue,

Though learning has whole armies at command,

Quarter’d about in every land,

A better troop she ne’re together drew.

Methinks, like Gideon’s little band,

God with design has pick’d out you,

To do these noble wonders by a few:

When the whole host he saw, they are (said he)

Too many to o’ercome for me;

And now he chooses out his men,

Much in the way that he did then:

Not those many whom he found

Idly extended on the ground,

To drink with their dejected head

The stream just so as by their mouths it fled:

No, but those few who took the waters up,

And made of their laborious hands the cup.

VII.

Thus you prepared; and in the glorious fight

Their wondrous pattern, too, you take:

Their old and empty pitchers first they brake,

And with their hands then lifted up the light.

Io! Sound too the trumpets here!

Already your victorious lights appear;

New scenes of heaven already we espy,

And crowds of golden worlds on high,

Which, from the spacious plains of earth and sea,

Could never yet discovered be

By sailor’s or Chaldean’s watchful eye.

Nature’s great works no distance can obscure;

No smallness her near objects can secure.

You’ve taught the curious sight to press

Into the privatest recess

Of her imperceptible littleness.

You’ve learned to read her smallest hand,

And well begun her deepest sense to understand.

VIII.

Mischief and true dishonor fall on those

Who would to laughter or to scorn expose

So virtuous and so noble a design,

So human for its use, for knowledge so divine.

The things which these proud men despise, and call

Impertinent, and vain, and small,

Those smallest things of nature met me know,

Rather than all their greatest actions do.

Whoever would deposed truth advance

Into the throne usurped from it,

Must feel at first the blows of ignorance

And the sharp points of envious wit.

So when, by various turns of the celestial dance,

In many thousand years

A star, so long unknown, appears,

Though heaven itself more beauteous by it grow,

It troubles and alarms the world below,

Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor show.

IX.

With courage and success you the bold work begin;

Your cradle has not idle bin:

None e’re but Hercules and you could be

At five years age worthy a history.

And ne’re did fortune better yet

Th’ historian to the story fit:

As you from all old errors free

And purge the body of philosophy;

So from all modern follies he

Has vindicated eloquence and wit.

His candid style like a clean stream does slide,

And his bright fancy all the way

Does like the sun-shine in it play;

It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,

Where the god does not rudely overturn,

But gently pour the crystal urn,

And with judicious hand does the whole current guide.

‘T has all the beauties Nature can impart,

And all the comely dress without the paint of art.

Poetry Monster – Home

A few random poems:

External links

Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

Talking Writing Monster’s Page –

Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• Юлия Друнина – Я ушла из детства в грязную теплушку by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Я, признаться, сберечь не сумела шинели by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Я порою себя ощущаю связной by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Я не привыкла by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Я курила недолго, давно, на войне by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Я горожанка by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Хорошо молодое лицо by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Все грущу о шинели by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Ветер с фронта by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Верность by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Веет чем-то родным и древним by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – В сорок пятом by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – В школе by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – В семнадцать by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – В манеже by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – В голом парке коченеют клёны by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Убивали молодость мою by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – У моря by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Ты рядом by Юлия Друнина
• Юлия Друнина – Ты должна by Юлия Друнина

More external links (open in a new tab):

Russian Commerce Agency

Dealing Monster

Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

Parallel Translations of Poetry

Poems by Author and Category

The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works