Such is your muse: no metaphor swell'd high
With dang'rous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in Samson's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear, And yet no sign of toil, no sweat, appear.
Either your art hides art, as Stoics feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;
And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work, that in your head
The curious net that is for fancies spread,
Lets through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of chance, and not of care.
No atoms casually together hurl'd
Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your strong genius then, which does not feel
Those weights, would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
But what we most admire, your verse no less
The prophet than the poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of light, you saw great Charles's morning break.
So skilful seamen ken the land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dull passenger.
As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore, Discover wealth in lands unknown before; And, what their art had labour'd long in vain, By their misfortunes happily obtain:
much-envied muse, by storms long toss'd, Is thrown upon your hospitable coast, And finds more favour by her ill success, Than she could hope for by her happiness.
What further fear of danger can there be? Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free. Posterity will judge by my success,
I had the Grecian poet's happiness,
Who, waiving plots, found out a better way;
Some god descended, and preserv'd the play.
To the Earl of Roscommon.
Till barb'rous nations, and more barb'rous times,
Debas'd the majesty of verse to rhymes;
Those rude at first: a kind of hobbling prose,
That limp'd along, and tinkled in the close.
But Italy, reviving from the trance
Of Vandal, Goth, and monkish ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words,
And all the graces a good ear affords,
Made rhyme an art; and Dante's polish'd page
Restor❜d a silver, not a golden age.
Then Petrarch follow'd, and in him we see
What rhyme improv'd in all its height can be:
At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity.
Far from her sight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride; And Envy did but look on her and died. Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate, Her sight is purchas'd at an easy rate. Three gloomy years against this day were set; But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt: Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine past, the plenty still to come. For her the weeping heav'ns become serene; For her the ground is clad in cheerful green: For her the nightingales are taught to sing, And Nature has for her delay'd the spring. The Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, And Love restor'd his ancient realm surveys, Recals our beauties, and revives our plays.
Already I am worn with cares and age,
And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:
Unprofitably kept at heav'n's expense,
I live a rent-charge on his providence:
But you, whom every muse and grace adorn,
Whom I foresee to better fortune born,
Be kind to my remains; and O defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue,
But shade those laurels which descend to you.
How bless'd is he, who leads a country life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
From your award to wait their final doom;
And, foes before, return in friendship home.
Without their cost, you terminate the cause;
And save th' expense of long litigious laws:
Where suits are travers'd, and so little won,
That he who conquers is but last undone:
Such are not your decrees; but so design'd,
The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;
Like your own soul, serene; a pattern of
By chace our long-liv'd fathers earn'd their food; Toil strung the nerves, and purified the blood: But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten. Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought, Than see the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise, for cure, on exercise depend.
Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
And from their animated canvas came,
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;
With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;
With rev'rence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race..
His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:
Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best.
Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost:
When most they rail, know then, they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
FIRST BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAS.
At this, Achilles roll'd his furious eyes,
Fix'd on the king askant; and thus replies:
O, impudent, regardful of thy own,
Whose thoughts are centred on thyself alone,
Advanc'd to sov'reign sway, for better ends
Than thus like abject slaves to treat thy friends.
What Greek is he, that, urg'd by thy command,
Against the Trojan troops will lift his hand?
Not I: nor such enforc'd respect I owe;
Nor Pergamus I hate, nor Priam is my foe.
What wrong, from Troy remote, could I sustain,
To leave my fruitful soil, and happy reign,
And plough the surges of the stormy main?
Thee, frontless man, we follow'd from afar;
Thy instruments of death, and tools of war.
Thine is the triumph; ours the toil alone:
We bear thee on our backs, and mount thee on the throne.
For thee we fall in fight; for thee redress
Thy baffled brother, not the wrongs of Greece.
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