Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar,
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's
Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not so when diadem'd with rays divine,
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of Eternity.
There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars then * and **
And may descend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.)
Let Envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus sings.
And bark at honour not conferr'd by king's
Let Flatt'ry, sick'ning, see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse, as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth stands trembling on the edge of law.
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read:
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead,
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degenʼrate line.
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.
To Robert, Earl of Oxford, and Lord Mortimer.
were the notes thy once lov'd poet sung Till death, untimely, stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld and lost! admir'd and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts, adorn'd! Bless'd in each science! bless'd in ev'ry strain! 5 Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear---in vain!
For him thou oft' hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him despis'd the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dext'rous the craving, fawning, crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of int'rest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford ere was great ;
Or deeming meanest, what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And sure if aught below the seats divine,
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine;
*Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our author after the said Earl's imprisonment in the Tower, and retreat into the coun try, in the year 1721.
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
15
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft' in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While summer's-suns roll unperceiv'd away !
How oft' our slowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!
How oft' review, each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame, and something to commend!
What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought,
Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps, methinks we fly,
Fir'd with ideas of fair Italy.
With thee on Raphael's monument I mourn,
Or wait inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repose, were Tully once was laid,
Or seek some ruin's formidable shade..
While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And build imaginary Rome a-new :
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye,
And fading fresco here demands a sigh:
Each heav'nly piece, unweary'd, we compare ;
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air;
Caracci's strength; Corregio's softer line;
Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil, appears
This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years*!
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the painter's breast?
*Fresnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrow shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire;
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, 55
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower! that ev'ry season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestów,
And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh! lasting as those colours may they shine!
Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains,
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains:
The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,
And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.
She glares in balls, front-boxes, and the ring,
A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing!
Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part;
She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart.
But, Madam, if the Fates withstand, and you
Are destin'd. Hymen's willing victim too,
Trust not too much your now resistless charms,
Those, age or sickness, soon or late disarms;
Good humour only teaches charms to last,
Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past. Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay;
Our hearts may bear its slender chain a day,'
As flow'ry bands in wantonness are worn,
A morning's pleasure, and at ev'ning torn;
This binds in ties more easy, yet more strong,
The willing heart, and only holds it long.
Thus Voiture's early care still shone the same, And Monthausier was only chang'd in name: By this ev'n now they live, ev'n now they charm, Their wit still sparkling, and their flames still warm. Now crown'd with myrtle on th' Elysian coast, Amid those lovers, joys his gentle ghost;
Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rombouillet in you.
The brightest eyes in France inspir'd his Muse;
The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride
Still to charm those who charm the world beside.
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