Elijah Fenton

Elijah Fenton Poems

Elijah Fenton Biography

Elijah Fenton (1683 – 1730) was a poet, biographer and translator. Born in Shelton (now Stoke-on-Trent), and educated at Jesus College, Cambridge, for a time he acted as secretary to the Charles Boyle, 4th Earl of Orrery in Flanders, and was then Master of Sevenoaks Grammar School. In 1707, Fenton published a book of poems. He later became tutor to Sir William Trumbull's son at Easthampstead Park in Berkshire and is now best known as the assistant of his neighbour, Alexander Pope, in his translation of the Odyssey, of which he 'Englished' the first, fourth, nineteenth, and twentieth books, catching the manner of his master so completely that it is hardly possible to distinguish between their work; while thus engaged he published (1723) a successful tragedy, Marianne. His later contributions to literature were a Life of Milton, and as an editor of Waller's Poems (1729). He died on 16th of July 1730, and is buried in the churchyard of the Parish Church of St Michael and St Mary Magdalene at Easthampstead in Berkshire. There is a memorial to him on the wall of the church, with an epitaph by Alexander Pope. This reads:-)

The Best Poem Of Elijah Fenton

An Ode To The Sun, For The New Year

Augur, & fulgente decorus arcu
Phoebus acceptusque novem Camænis,
Qui salutari levat arte fessos
Corporis artus; __
Alterum in Lustrum meliusque semper
Proroget ævum.
Horat.

Begin, Celestial Source of Light,
To gild the new-revolving Sphear;
And from the pregnant Womb of Night,
Urge on to birth the infant Year.
Rich with auspicious Lustre rise,
Thou fairest Regent of the Skies,
Conspicuous with thy Silver Bow!
To thee, a God, 'twas given by Jove
To rule the radiant Orbs above,
To Gloriana this below.

With Joy renew thy destin'd Race,
And let the mighty Months begin:
Let no ill Omen cloud thy Face,
Thro' all thy Circle smile serene.
While the stern Ministers of Fate
Watchful o'er pale Lutetia wait,
To grieve the Gaul's perfidious Head;
The Hours, thy Off-spring heav'nly Fair,
Their whitest Wings should ever wear,
And gentle Joys on Albion shed.

When Ilia bore the future Fates of Rome,
And the long Honours of her Race began,
Thus, to prepare the graceful Age to come,
They from thy Stores in happy Order ran.
Heroes elected to the List of Fame,
Fix'd the sure Columns of her rising State:
'Till the loud Triumphs of the Julian Name
Render'd the Glories of her Reign compleat,
Each Year advanc'd a Rival to the rest,
In comely Spoils of War, and great Atchievements drest.

Say, Phoebus, for thy searching Eye
Saw Rome the darling Child of Fate,
When nothing equal here could vie
In Strength with her imperious State;
Say if high Virtues there did reign
Exalted in a nobler Strain,
Than in fair Albion thou hast seen:
Or can her Demi-Gods compare
Their Trophies for successful War,
To those that rise for Albion's Queen?

When Albion first majestick shew'd
High o'er the circling Seas her Head,
Her the great Father smiling view'd,
And thus to bright Victoria said:
Mindful of Phlegra's happy Plain,
On which, fair Nymph, you fix'd my Reign,
This Isle to you shall sacred be;
Her Hand shall hold the rightful Scale,
And Crowns be vanquish'd, or prevail,
As Gloriana shall decree.

Victoria triumph in thy great Increase!
With Joy the Julian Stem the Tyber claims,
Young Ammon's Might the Granic Waves confess;
The Heber had a Mars, a Churchill Thames:
Roll, Sov'reign of the Streams! thy rapid Tide,
And bid thy Brother-Floods revere the Queen,
Whose Voice the Hero's happy Hand employ'd
To save the Danube, and subdue the Sein;
And boldly just to Gloriana's Fame,
Exalt thy Silver Urn, and duteous Homage claim.

Advanc'd to thy Meridian Height,
On Earth, great God of Day, look down:
Let Windsor entertain thy Sight,
Clad in fair Emblems of Renown:
And whilst in radiant Pomp appear
The Names to bright Victoria dear,
Intent the long Procession view:
Confess none worthier ever wore
Her Favours, or was deck'd with more,
Than she confers on Churchill's Brow.

But oh! withdraw thy piercing Rays,
The Nymph anew begins to moan,
Viewing the much lamented Space,
Where late her warlike William shone:
There fix'd by her officious Hand,
His Sword and Sceptre of Command
To deathless Fame adopted rest:
Nor wants there to compleat her Woe,
Plac'd with respectful Love below,
The Star that beam'd on Glo'ster's Breast.

O Phoebus! all thy saving Pow'r employ,
Long let our Vows avert the destin'd Woe,
E'er Gloriana re-ascends the Sky,
And leaves a Land of Orphans here below!
But when (so Heav'n ordains!) her smiling Ray
Distinguish'd o'er the Balance shall preside,
Whilst future Kings her ancient Sceptre sway,
May her mild Influence all their Councils guide:
To Albion ever constant in her Love,
Of Sov'reigns here the best, the brightest Star above.

For lawless Pow'r reclaim'd to Right,
And Virtue rais'd by pious Arms,
Let Albion be thy fair Delight,
And shield her safe from threaten'd Harms:
With Flow'rs and Fruit her Bosom fill,
Let Laurel rise on ev'ry Hill
Fresh as the first on Daphne's Brow:
Instruct her tuneful Sons to sing,
And make each Vale with Pæans ring,
To Blenheim and Ramillia due.

Secure of bright Eternal Fame,
With happy Wing the Theban Swan
Tow'ring from Pisa's sacred Stream,
Inspir'd by thee the Song began:
Thro' Desarts of unclouded Light,
When he harmonious took his Flight,
The Gods constrain'd the sounding Sphears:
Still Envy darts her Rage in vain,
The Lustre of his Worth to stain,
He growing whiter with his Years.

But, Phoebus, God of Numbers, high to raise
The Honours of thy Art, and heav'nly Lyre,
What Muse is destin'd to our Sov'reign's Praise,
Worthy her Acts, and thy informing Fire?
To him, for whom this springing Laurel grows,
Eternal on the topmost heights of Fame,
Be kind, and all thy Helicon disclose;
And all intent on Gloriana's Name,
Let Silence brood o'er Ocean, Earth, and Air,
As when to Victor Jove thou sung'st the Giants War.

In sure Records each shining Deed,
When faithful Clio sets to view,
Posterity will doubting read,
And scarce believe her Annals true:
The Muses toil with Art to raise
Fictitious Monuments of Praise,
When other Actions they rehearse;
But half of Gloriana's Reign,
That so the rest may Credit gain,
Should pass unregister'd in Verse.

High on its own establish'd Base
Prevailing Virtue's pleas'd to rise;
Divinely deck'd with native Grace,
Rich in itself with solid Joys:
E'er Gloriana on the Throne,
Quitting for Albion's Rest her own,
In Types of Regal Pow'r was seen;
With fair Preheminence confest
It triumph'd in a private Breast,
And made the Princess more than Queen.

O Phoebus! would thy Godhead not refuse
This humble Incense, on thy Altar laid;
Would thy propitious Ear attend the Muse,
That suppliant now invokes thy certain Aid;
With Mantuan Force I'd mount a stronger Gale,
And sing the Parent of her Land, who strove
T'exceed the Transports of her People's Zeal,
With Acts of Mercy, and majestick Love;
By Fate, to fix Britannia's Empire, giv'n
The guardian Pow'r of Earth, and publick Care of Heav'n.

Then, Churchill, should the Muse record
The Conquests by thy Sword atchiev'd;
Quiet to Belgian States restor'd,
And Austrian Crowns by thee retriev'd.
Imperious Leopold confess'd
His hoary Majesty distress'd,
To Arms, to Arms, Bavaria calls;
Nor with less Terror shook his Throne,
Than when the rising Crescent shone
Malignant o'er his shatter'd Walls.

The Warrior led the Britons forth
On foreign Fields to dare their Fate;
Distinguish'd Souls of shining Worth,
In War unknowing to retreat:
Thou, Phoebus, saw'st the Hero's Face,
When Mars had breath'd a Purple Grace,
And mighty Fury fill'd his Breast;
How like thy self, when to destroy
The Greeks thou did'st thy Darts employ,
Fierce with thy golden Quiver drest!

Sudden, whil'st banish'd from his native Land,
Red with dishonest Wounds Bavaria mourn'd,
The Chief, at Gloriana's high Command,
Like a rowz'd Lion to the Maes return'd:
With vengeful Speed the British Sword he drew,
Unus'd to grieve his Host with long Delay;
Whilst wing'd with Fear the Force of Gallia flew;
As when the Morning-Star restores the Day,
The wand'ring Ghosts of twenty thousand slain
Fleet sullen to the Shades, from Blenheim's mournful Plain.

Britannia, wipe thy dusty Brow,
And put the Bourbon Laurels on;
To thee deliver'd Nations bow,
And bless the Spoils thy Wars have won.
For thee Bellona points her Spear,
And whilst lamenting Mothers fear,
On high her signal Torch displays:
But when thy Sword is sheath'd, again
Obsequious she receives thy Chain,
And smooths her Violence of Face.

Parent of Arms! for ever stand
With large Increase of Fame rever'd,
Whilst Arches to thy saving Hand
On Danube's grateful Banks are rear'd.
Eugene, inspir'd to War by thee,
Ausonia's weeping States to free,
Swift on th' Imperial Eagle flies:
Whilst bleeding, from his azure Bed
Th' asserted Iber lifts his Head,
And safe his Austrian Lord enjoys.

Iö Britannia! fix'd on foreign Wars,
Guiltless of Civil Rage extend thy Name:
The Waves of utmost Ocean, and the Stars,
Are Bounds but equal to thy Sov'reigns Fame.
With deeper Wrath thy Victor Lion roars,
Wide o'er the subject World diffusing Fear;
Whilst Gallia weeps her Guilt, and Peace implores:
So Earth, transfix'd by fierce Minerva's Spear,
A gentler Birth obedient did disclose,
And sudden from the Wound eternal Olives rose.

When with establish'd Freedom bless'd,
The Globe to great Alcides bow'd,
Whose happy Pow'r reliev'd th' oppress'd
From lawless Chains, and check'd the proud;
Mature in Fame, the grateful Gods
Receiv'd him to their bright Abodes,
Where Hebe crown'd his blooming Joys;
Garlands the willing Muses wove,
And each with Emulation strove
T'adorn the Churchill of the Skies.

For Albion's Chief, ye sacred Nine!
Your Harps with gen'rous Ardor string,
With Fame's immortal Trumpet join,
And safe beneath his Laurel sing:
When clad in Vines the Sein shall glide,
And duteous in a smoother Tide
To British Seas her Tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's Shrine attend,
And long with living Beams defend
From Night, the Warrior's votive Shield.

And, Woodstock, let his Dome exalt the Fame,
Great o'er the Norman Ruins be restor'd;
Thou that with Pride dost Edward's Cradle claim,
Receive an equal Hero for thy Lord.
Whilst ev'ry Column to record their Toils
Eternal Monuments of Conquest wears,
And all thy Walls are dress'd with mingled Spoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramillia, and Poictiers,
High on thy Tow'r the grateful Flag display,
Due to thy Queen's Reward, and Blenheim's glorious Day.

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