George Chapman (1559?–1634)

O! ’TIS wondrous much

Though nothing prosed, 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 inflamed.

How much, then, were this kingdom’s main soul maimed

To want this great inflamer of all powers

That move in human souls! All realms but yours

Are honored with them, and hold blest that State

That have his works to read and contemplate,

In which humanity to her height is raised;

Which all the world, yet none enough hath praised.

Seas, earth, and heaven, he did in verse comprise,

Outsung 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 fashioned 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 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; every one

Blowing the holy fire, throwing in

Their seasons, kingdoms, nations, that have been

Subverted in them; laws, religions, all

Offered to change, and greedy funeral,

Yet still your Homer lasting, living, reigning,

And proves how firm Truth builds in poets feigning.