ROBERT Earl of OXFORD, and
Earl MORTIMER.
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,
'Till Death untimely ftop'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh just beheld! and loft! admir'd and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain !
Dear to the Mufe! to HARLEY dear-in vain!
For him, thou oft had bid the World attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For SWIFT and him, despis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great ;
Dextrous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from Flattery to Wit.
Epift. to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epiftle was fent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr Parnell's poems published by our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprifonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the year 1721
Absent or dead, fill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of Int'reft, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.
And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:
A Soul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.
In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent fhade;
'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewel.
Ev'n now, fhe fhades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays, (No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praise)
obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-fet of thy various Day,
Thro' Fortuen's cloud one truely great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.
To JAMES CRAGGS, Efq; SECRETARY of STATE.
Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,
Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide,
Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lye,
And strikes a blush thro' frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert, and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by servile ways,
Nor wifh to lofe a Foe thefe Virtues raise;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minifter, but still a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of You.
[Secretary of State] In the year 1720,
With Mr DRYDEN's Trauflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
HIS Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou
This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse,
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which confpire
Frefnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire:
And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy fkill, fo regular my rage.
Smit with the love of Sifter-Arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Epift. to Mr Jervas.] This Epiftle, and the two following were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new ftrength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away?
How oft' our flowly-growing works impart,
While Images reflect from art to art?
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and fomething to commend!
What flatt'ring fcenes our wand'ring fancy
wrought,
Rome's pompous glories rifing 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 infpiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new,
Here thy well-ftudy'd marbles fix our eye;
A fading Fresco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Caracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears
This fmall, well-polifh'd Gem, the work of years?
Fresnoy employed above twenty years in finishing his Poem.
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