LINES ON A GROTTO, AT CRUX-EASTON,
HERE shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters* raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which Nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But Fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a court.
OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF
BUCKINGHAM.
MUSE, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends.
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail;
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain:
Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and malice from this hour are friends.
LINES TO LORD BATHURST.
A WOOD!' quoth Lewis, and with that He laugh'd, and shook his sides of fat. His tongue, with eye that mark'd his cunning, Thus fell a-reasoning, not a-running : 'Woods are not to be too prolixCollective bodies of straight sticks.
It is, my lord, a mere conundrum
To call things woods for what grows under 'em. For shrubs, when nothing else at top is,
Can only constitute a coppice.
But if you will not take my word,
See anno quint of Richard Third;
And that's a coppice call'd, where dock'd,
Witness an. prim. of Harry Oct.
If this a wood you will maintain,
Merely because it is no plain,
Hoiland, for all that I can see,
May e'en as well be term'd the sea;
Or C-by [Coningsby] be fair harangued
An honest man, because not hang'd.'
LINES ON SWIFT'S ANCESTORS.*
JONATHAN SWIFT
Had the gift,
By fatherige, motherige,
And by brotherige,
To come from Gotherige,
But now is spoil'd clean
And an Irish dean.
In this church he has put
A stone of two foot,
With a cup and a can, sir,
In respect to his grandsire;
So Ireland change thy tone,
And cry, O hone! O hone!
For England hath its own.
* Swift had placed a tablet to his grandfather's memory in the church of Goodrich, or Gotheridge, a sketch of which he sent to Miss Howard. She returned it with these lines, which Pope had inscribed on the drawing.
The following Lines were sung by Durastanti when she took her leave of the English stage. The words were put together, in haste, by Mr. Pope, at the request of the Earl of Peterborough.
GENEROUS, gay, and gallant nation,
Bold in arms, and bright in arts;
Land secure from all invasion,
All but Cupid's gentle darts!
From your charms, oh! who would run?
Who would leave you for the sun?
Happy soil, adieu, adieu !
Let old charmers yield to new;
In arms, in arts, be still more shining;
All your joys be still increasing;
All your tastes be still refining;
All your jars for ever ceasing:
But let old charmers yield to new.
Happy soil, adieu, adieu!
LINES IN EVELYN'S BOOK OF COINS.
TOM WOOD of Chiswick, deep divine,
To painter Kent gave all this coin;
"Tis the first coin I'm bold to say,
That ever churchman gave to lay.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY W. MONTAGUE,
BY KNELLER.
THE playful smiles around the dimpled mouth,
That happy air of majesty and truth;
So would I draw (but, oh! 'tis vain to try;
My narrow genius does the power deny)
The equal lustre of the heavenly mind,
Where every grace with every virtue 's join'd;
Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe,
With greatness easy, and with wit sincere;
With just description show the soul divine,
And the whole princess in iny work should shine.
Left by Mr. Pope, on his lying in the same bed which Wilmot, the celebrated Earl of Rochester, slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9, 1739.
WITH no poetic ardour fired,
I press the bed where Wilmot lay :
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers, grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.
Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
IN THE NAME OF MRS. BUTLER'S SPIRIT, LATELY DECEASED. These verses were addressed to Dr. Bolton, late Dean of Carlisle, who lived some time at Twickenham with old Lady Blount. On the death of her mother, Mrs. Butler of Sussex, Dr. Bolton drew up the mother's character; and hence Pope took occasion to write this Epistle to Dr. Bolton, in the name of the spirit, in the regions of bliss.
STRIPP'D to the naked soul, escaped from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolved in day;
Unwarm'd by vanity, unreach'd by strife,
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life;
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays,
And, though unbodied, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the firmless mind control?
Can gratitude outpant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the gloom of death?
No 'tis a spirit's nobler task of bliss;
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine approves;
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves;
Who livest to crown departed friends with fame;
Then dying, late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim.
WHEN wise Ulysses, from his native coast
Long kept by wars, and long by tempests toss'd,
Arrived at last, poor, old, disguised, alone,
To all his friends and e'en his queen unknown;
* These lines were sent to Henry Cromwell, Esq. October 19, 1709, in a letter, containing a panegyric on dogs.
|