A Pindaric Ode
THE
TURN
Brave
infant
of
Saguntum,
clear
Thy
coming
forth
in
that
great
year,
When
the
prodigious
Hannibal
did
crown
His
rage
with
razing
your
immortal
town.
Thou
looking
then
about,
Ere
thou
wert
half
got
out,
Wise
child,
didst
hastily
return,
And
mad'st
thy
mother's
womb
thine
urn.
How
summ'd
a
circle
didst
thou
leave
mankind
Of
deepest
lore,
could
we
the
centre
find!
THE
COUNTER-TURN
Did
wiser
nature
draw
thee
back,
From
out
the
horror
of
that
sack;
Where
shame,
faith,
honour,
and
regard
of
right,
Lay
trampled
on?
The
deeds
of
death
and
night
Urg'd,
hurried
forth,
and
hurl'd
Upon
th'
affrighted
world;
Sword,
fire
and
famine
with
fell
fury
met,
And
all
on
utmost
ruin
set:
As,
could
they
but
life's
miseries
foresee,
No
doubt
all
infants
would
return
like
thee.
THE
STAND
For
what
is
life,
if
measur'd
by
the
space,
Not
by
the
act?
Or
masked
man,
if
valu'd
by
his
face,
Above
his
fact?
Here's
one
outliv'd
his
peers
And
told
forth
fourscore
years:
He
vexed
time,
and
busied
the
whole
state;
Troubled
both
foes
and
friends;
But
ever
to
no
ends:
What
did
this
stirrer
but
die
late?
How
well
at
twenty
had
he
fall'n
or
stood!
For
three
of
his
four
score
he
did
no
good.
THE
TURN
He
enter'd
well,
by
virtuous
parts
Got
up,
and
thriv'd
with
honest
arts;
He
purchas'd
friends,
and
fame,
and
honours
then,
And
had
his
noble
name
advanc'd
with
men;
But
weary
of
that
flight,
He
stoop'd
in
all
men's
sight
To
sordid
flatteries,
acts
of
strife,
And
sunk
in
that
dead
sea
of
life,
So
deep,
as
he
did
then
death's
waters
sup,
But
that
the
cork
of
title
buoy'd
him
up.
THE
COUNTER-TURN
Alas,
but
Morison
fell
young!
He
never
fell,—thou
fall'st,
my
tongue.
He
stood,
a
soldier
to
the
last
right
end,
A
perfect
patriot
and
a
noble
friend;
But
most,
a
virtuous
son.
All
offices
were
done
By
him,
so
ample,
full,
and
round,
In
weight,
in
measure,
number,
sound,
As,
though
his
age
imperfect
might
appear,
His
life
was
of
humanity
the
sphere.
THE
STAND
Go
now,
and
tell
out
days
summ'd
up
with
fears,
And
make
them
years;
Produce
thy
mass
of
miseries
on
the
stage,
To
swell
thine
age;
Repeat
of
things
a
throng,
To
show
thou
hast
been
long,
Not
liv'd;
for
life
doth
her
great
actions
spell,
By
what
was
done
and
wrought
In
season,
and
so
brought
To
light:
her
measures
are,
how
well
Each
syllabe
answer'd,
and
was
form'd,
how
fair;
These
make
the
lines
of
life,
and
that's
her
air.
THE
TURN
It
is
not
growing
like
a
tree
In
bulk,
doth
make
men
better
be;
Or
standing
long
an
oak,
three
hundred
year,
To
fall
a
log
at
last,
dry,
bald,
and
sear:
A
lily
of
a
day
Is
fairer
far,
in
May,
Although
it
fall
and
die
that
night,
It
was
the
plant
and
flower
of
light.
In
small
proportions
we
just
beauties
see;
And
in
short
measures
life
may
perfect
be.
THE
COUNTER-TURN
Call,
noble
Lucius,
then,
for
wine,
And
let
thy
looks
with
gladness
shine;
Accept
this
garland,
plant
it
on
thy
head,
And
think,
nay
know,
thy
Morison's
not
dead.
He
leap'd
the
present
age,
Possest
with
holy
rage,
To
see
that
bright
eternal
day;
Of
which
we
priests
and
poets
say
Such
truths
as
we
expect
for
happy
men;
And
there
he
lives
with
memory,
and
Ben
THE
STAND
Jonson,
who
sung
this
of
him,
ere
he
went
Himself,
to
rest,
Or
taste
a
part
of
that
full
joy
he
meant
To
have
exprest,
In
this
bright
asterism,
Where
it
were
friendship's
schism,
Were
not
his
Lucius
long
with
us
to
tarry,
To
separate
these
twi{-}
Lights,
the
Dioscuri,
And
keep
the
one
half
from
his
Harry.
But
fate
doth
so
alternate
the
design,
Whilst
that
in
heav'n,
this
light
on
earth
must
shine.
THE
TURN
And
shine
as
you
exalted
are;
Two
names
of
friendship,
but
one
star:
Of
hearts
the
union,
and
those
not
by
chance
Made,
or
indenture,
or
leas'd
out
t'
advance
The
profits
for
a
time.
No
pleasures
vain
did
chime,
Of
rhymes,
or
riots,
at
your
feasts,
Orgies
of
drink,
or
feign'd
protests;
But
simple
love
of
greatness
and
of
good,
That
knits
brave
minds
and
manners
more
than
blood.
THE
COUNTER-TURN
This
made
you
first
to
know
the
why
You
lik'd,
then
after,
to
apply
That
liking;
and
approach
so
one
the
t'other
Till
either
grew
a
portion
of
the
other;
Each
styled
by
his
end,
The
copy
of
his
friend.
You
liv'd
to
be
the
great
surnames
And
titles
by
which
all
made
claims
Unto
the
virtue:
nothing
perfect
done,
But
as
a
Cary
or
a
Morison.
THE
STAND
And
such
a
force
the
fair
example
had,
As
they
that
saw
The
good
and
durst
not
practise
it,
were
glad
That
such
a
law
Was
left
yet
to
mankind;
Where
they
might
read
and
find
Friendship,
indeed,
was
written
not
in
words:
And
with
the
heart,
not
pen,
Of
two
so
early
men,
Whose
lines
her
rolls
were,
and
records;
Who,
ere
the
first
down
bloomed
on
the
chin,
Had
sow'd
these
fruits,
and
got
the
harvest
in.
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson (born June 11?, 1572, London, England—died August 6, 1637, London) English Stuart dramatist, lyric poet, and literary critic. He is generally regarded as the second most important English dramatist, after William Shakespeare, during the reign of James I. Among his major plays are the comedies Every Man in His Humour (1598), Volpone (1605), Epicoene; or, The Silent Woman (1609), The Alchemist (1610), and Bartholomew Fair (1614). Ben Jonson died in Westminster on August 8, 1637. A tremendous crowd of mourners attended his burial at Westminster Abbey. He is regarded as one of the major dramatists and poets of the seventeenth century.