"His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
"But discontent against the times:
"For, had we made him timely offers
"To raise his poft or fill his coffers,
"Perhaps he might have truckled down,
"Like other brethren of his
gown.
"For party he would scarce have bled:
“I say no more - - -, because he's dead.-
"What writings has he left behind ?”
I hear they're of a diff'rent kind:

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350

A few, in verfe; but moft, in profe.- 355 "Some high-flown pamphlets, I fuppofe: "All fcribbled in the worft of times, "To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes, "To praise queen Anne, nay more, defend her, "As never fav'ring the pretender :- 360 "Or libels yet conceal'd from fight, "Against the court to fhew his fpight:

"Perhaps his travels, part the third;

"A lye at ev'ry fecond word

"Offenfive to a loyal ear :

365

“But—not one sermon, you may fwear.".

As for his works, in verfe or profe,

I own myself no judge of thofe ;

Nor can I tell what criticks thought 'em ;

But this I know, all people bought 'em; 370

As with a moral view defign'd,

To please and to reform mankind :

And, if he often mifs'd his aim,

The world muft own it, to their shame,
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.

He

gave the little wealth he had

To build a house for fools and mad;

376

To fhew, by one fatyric touch,

No nation wanted it fo much.

And, fince you dread no farther lashes, 380 Methinks you may forgive his ashes.

A LETTER FROM ITALY,

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

IN THE YEAR MDCCI.

BY JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.*

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virúm! tibi res antiquæ laudis & artis
Aggredior, fanctos aufas recludere fontes.

VIRG. Georg. 2.

WHILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public pofts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhime.

* Born 1671; dyed 1719.

5

For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes, Gay gilded scenes and fhining profpects rife, Poetic fields incompafs me around,

10

And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unfung;
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, 15
And ev'ry stream in heav'nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods,
For rifing springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource, 20
To fee the Mincio draw his watry store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide

O'er the warm bed of fmoking fulphur glide.

25

Fir'd with a thousand raptures I furvey Eridanus through flow'ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains, And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. 30

Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng, I look for ftreams immortaliz'd in song, That loft in filence and oblivion lie,

(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry) Yet run for ever by the Mufe's fkill,

And in the smooth description murmur ftill.

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40

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire, That deftitute of strength derives its course From thrifty urns and an unfruitful fource; Yet fung so often in poetic lays, With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys; So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obfcurely stray'd, And unobferv'd in wild meanders play'd; 'Till by your lines and Naffau's fword renown'd, Its rifing billows through the world refound, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

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50

Oh cou'd the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse shou'd shine, And Virgil's Italy fhou'd yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That fhun the coast of Britain's ftormy ifle, 56 Or when tranfplanted and preserv'd with care, Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler taftes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And troden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, fome god, to Baia's gentle feats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats ;

60