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Comes from afar, in gratitude, to own
Marlb'rough's exploits appear divinely bright, The great supporter of his father's throne: And proudly shine in their own native light; What tides of glory to his bosom ran,
Rais'd of themtelves, their genuine charms they Claip'd in th’embraces of the yodlike man!
boast, How were his cyes with pleasing wonder fixt, And those who paint them truest praise them most. To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt, Such easy greatness, such a graceful port, So turn'd and finish'd for the camp or court !
§ 34. An Allegory on Man. PARNELL. Achilles thus was form'd with ev'ry grace,
THOUGHTFUL being, long and spare, And Nireus Thone but in the second place;
Our race of mortals call hin Care Thus the great father of almighty Rome (Were Homer living, well he knew (Divinely Autht with an immortal bloom What name the gods have call'd him too);
That Cytherea's fragrant breath bestow’d) With fine mechanic genius wrought,
In Jove's eternal sable head,
And be the worldling here bencath.
The man rose staring, like a stake,
The British chicf, for mighty toils renown'd, The business he was made to do;
But cre he gave the inighty nod,
Dangling behind her, like commodes :
Th’ambitious projects for his race destroy’d, Then thrice the rais'd, as Ovid said,
Her honors made, Great Jove, the cry'd,
Nay, rather ask, the Monarch said,
But I who join'd them, claim the whole. Make ev'ry subject glad, and a whole people Thus with the Gods debate began, blest.
On such a trivial cause as Van.
(There's none that paint him such as I;
Their filver honors on his head; Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays, He just had got his pinions free And round thic hero calt a borrow'd blaze. Froin his old Gire, Eternity.
A ferpent girdled round he wore,
And fpring's new months his train adorn!
Known by the gods, as near he draws, They make him umpire of the cause.
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, Where fince his hours a dial made; Then, leaning, heard the nice debate, And thus pronounc'd the words of Fate: Since body from the parent Earth, And foul from Jove receiv'd a birth, Return they where they first began; But fince their union makes the man, Till Jove and Earth fhall part thefe two, To Care who join'd them, man is due,
He said, and iprung with swift carcer To trace a circle for the year; Where ever fince the Seafons wheel, And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, faid Jove; and for confent, Thund'ring, he fhook the firmament. Our umpire Time fhall have his way; With Care I let the creature ftay: Let bus'nefs vex him, av'rice blind, Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, Let error act, opinion fpeak, And want afflict, and ficknefs break, And anger burn, dejection chill, And joy diftract, and forrow kill;. Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, Time draws the long deftructive blow; And wafted man, whofe quick decay Comes hurrying on before his day, Shall only find by this decree, The foul flies fooner back to me.
COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day;
See where his teeth a paffage eat t
Infatiate brute! whofe teeth abufe
Come, bind the victim,-there he lies,
The goblet in my hand I take
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
How like the fon of Jove I ftand,
But hold, before I clofe the fcene,
I'd rear the leaves to wipe the shrine
My manhood felt a vig'rous fire, (That only way you please the Nine);
By love increas’d the more; But since I chance to want these two,
But years with coining ycars confpire I'll make the 10 gs of Duricy do.
To break the chains I wore. Rent from the corps, on yonder pin,
In weakness safe, the sex I see I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
With idle luftre fhine; I hang my ftudious morning gown,
For what are all their joys to me, And ivrite my own intcription down.
Which cannot now be mine? • This trophy from the Python won, This rohe in which the deed was done,
But hold I feel my gout decrcase, • Thcie, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
My troubics laid to reit, • Hung on these shelves, the Muses' feat.
And truths which would disturb my peace • Here ignorance and hunger found
Are painful truths at best. • Lirge realms of wit to ravage round:
Vainly the time I have to roll • Here ignorance and hunger fell :
In sad reflection fies; • Two foes in one I fent to hell.
Ye fondling patlions of my soul ! • Ye poets, who my labours fee,
Ye fiveei deceits! arili. • Come share the triumph all ivith me!
I wisely change the scene within, • Ye Critics! born to vex the Musc,
To things that us’d to please; •Go mourn the grand ally you lose.'
In pain, philofophy is fpleen;
In health, 'tis only ease. 36. An Imitation of some French Perfes.
PARNELL, RELENTLESS Time! deft: oving pow'r,
§ 37. An Ejily on Poetry. * BUCKINGHAM, Whoin stone and brass ovey, Who giv'it to ev'ry flying hour
of all those arts in which the wife excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well : To work fome new decay;
No wrong lifts exnited man to high Unheard, unheeded, and unfeen,
is tacted and foul-moving Poly: Thy secret laps prevail,
No kind of walk requires to nice a touch; And ruin man, a nice machine,
And, if well finish d, nothing shines so much, By nature form’d to fail.
But Hcav'n forbid we thould be so profane, My change arrives; the change I meet, To grace the vulgar with that noble name. Before I thought it nigh.
'Tis not a Hath of fancy, which, fumetiines My spring, my years of pleasure flicet,
Dazzling our minds, set off the flightest rhymes: And all their beauties die.
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done :
True wnt is everlasting, like the fin,
Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retir'd, Grave Wisdom stalking slow behind,
Breaks out a ai!, and is by all admir'i. Oppress’d with loads of pain.
Number and rhyme, and that ha'zonious sound, My ignorance could once beguile,
Which not the nicest ear with harthness wound And fancy'd joys inspire ;
Are neceflary, yet but vulgar arts ;
And all in vain thefe fuperficial parts My errors cherish'd Hope to smile
Contribute to the structure of the whole,
Without a genius too; for that's the soul:
A spirit which infpires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about; Not worth the long impatient with,
A Aame that glows amid conceptions fit: And ardour of the thought.
Ev'n something of divine, and incre than wit; My youth met Fortune fair array'd,
Itself unleen, vet ail things by it shown, Io all her pomp she thone,
Describing all men, but defcribed by none! And might perhaps have well estay'd,
Where doit thoudwell? what caverns of the brain To make her gifts my own;
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain ! But when I saw the blessings show'r
When I, at vacant hours, in vain thy abience On some unworthy mind,
mburn, I left the chace, and ownd the Pow'r.
Oh! where dost thou retire? and why doit thou Was justly painted blind.
away I pass’d the glories which adorn
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry ine The splendid courts of kings,
From pleasures of the night and bus'nels of the And while the persons mov'd my scorn, Ev'n now, too far transported, I am fain [day? I rose to scorn the things.
To check thy course and use the needful rein,
* The “ Eslay on Satire,” which was written by shis noble author and Mr. Dryden, is printed among the Poems of the latter.
As all is dulness when the fancy's bad, But noisy nonsense, and such fops as vex
Women have drawnmy wand'ring thoughts aside,
And ev'ry couplst be with fancy fillid; But who that task would after Horace do ? If yet a just coherence lx not made Thc bett af matters, and cxampics too ! Between each thought ; and the whole model Echocs at bett, all we can say is vain ;
laid Dull the design, and fruitless were the pain. So right, that every line might higher rise, "Tis true, the ancients we may rob with ease ! Like goodly mountains, till they reach the skies, But who with that mcan thift himself can plcase, Such trifles may perhaps of late have past, Without an actor's pride? A player's art And inay be lik'd awhile, but never last; Is above his who writes a borrow'd part. 'Tis cpigram, 'tis point, 'tis what you will, Yet modern laws are made for latter faults, But not an elegy, nor writ with fkill, And now absurdities inspire new thoughts; No * Panegyric, nor a + Cooper's Hill. What need has Satire then to live on theft, A higher fight, and of a happier force, Wien 10 much fresh occafion ftill is left? Are Odes: the Mufcs most unruly hortc, Fertile our foil, and full of rankest weeds, Thai Bounds so fierce, the rider has no rest, And montters worse than ever Nilus brecds. Here foams at mouth, and moves like one poliest. But hold, the fool thall have no caule to fear; The poet here muti be indeed inspir'd 'Tis wit and sense that is the subject here : With fury too, as well as fancy fir'd. Defects of witty men deserve a cure;
Cowley might boast to have perform'd this part, And thote who are so, will ev’n this endure. Had he with nature join'd the rules of art; First then, of songs, which now so inuch abound; But sometimes di&tion mean, or verle ill-wroughts Without his song no fop is to be found ; Deadens or clouds his noble frame of thought. A most offensive weapon, which he draivs Though all appear in heat and fury done, On all he meets againit Apollo's laws.
The language still must foft and cafy run. Tho' nothing seems more easy, yet no part
found a little too leverc; Of poetry requires a nicer ait;
But judgment yields, and fancy governs here; For as in rows of richest pearl there lies Which, though extravagant, this Muse allows, Niany a blenish that escapes our cyes,
And makes the work much easier than it shows The least of which defects is plainiy thown Of all the ways that wiselt men could find In one finall ring, and brings the value davn. To inend the age, and inortify mankind, So fongs should be to just perfection wrought; Satire well writ has most fuccessful provid, Yet where can one be icen without a fault? And cures, because the remcdy is lov'd. Exact propricty of words and thought;
'Tis hard to write on such a subjcēt more, Exprcision caly, and the fancy high;
Without repeating things said oft before : Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly; Some vulgar errors only we'll remove, No words transpos’d; but in fuch order all, That Itain a beauty which we so much love. As wrought with care, yet feem by chance to fall. Of choten words fóme take not care enough, Here, as in all things elle, is most unfit, And think they should be as the fubject, rough; Bare ribaldry, that poor pretence to wit ; This pocm must be more exactly made, Such nauseous fongs by a late author fi made, And sharpelt thoughts in smoothcft words conCall an unwilling cenfure on his ihade.
vey'd. Not that warm thoughts of the transporting joy Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail, Can shock the chaficít, or the niceft cloy : As if their only business was to rail : But words obscene, too grofs to move desire, But human frailty nicely to unfold, Like heaps of fuel, only choke the fire. Distinguishes a satyr from a scold. On other theines he well deferves our praise ; Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down; But palls that appetite he meant to raise. A latyr's simile is tharper than his frown;
Next, Elegy, of sweet, but folemn voice, So while you seem to flight fome rival youth, And of a subject grave, exacts the choice; Malice itlelf riay pafs fometiines for truth. The praife of beauty, valour, wit contains ; The Laureart here may justly claim our praise, And there too oft despairing love complains : Crown’d by Mac Flecknoes with immortal bays; In vain, alas ! for who by wit is mov'd ? Yet once his Pegasus $ has bornc dead weight, That Phænix-she deserves to be belov'd; Rid by some lumpish minister of state.
+!The Farl cf Rochefter. It may be observed, however, that many of the worst songs ascribed to this aobleman were fpurious: * Waller's. + Denham's. | Mr. Dryden. | A fainous Satirical Puem of hiso § A pocin call’d The Hind and Panther:
Here reft, my Mufe, fufpend thy cares awhile, | Plato and Lucian are the best remains
A more important task attends thy toil.
First then, Soliloquies had need be few,
Figures of fpeech, that poets think fo fine
But oh the Dialogues, where jeft and mock
By nature not infpir'd, nor learning taught?
Of all the wonders which this art contains;
Some faults must be, that his misfortunes drew;
Another fault, which often may befal,
But fince the poets we of late have known,