« ZurückWeiter »
Oh, source of every social tye, ♦ 2$
United wish, and mutual joy!
What various joys on one attend,
As son, as father, brother, husband, friend!
Whether his hoary sire he spies,
While thousand grateful thoughts arise; 30
Or meets his spouse's fonder eye,
Or views his smiling progeny;
What tender passions take their turns,
What home-felt raptures move!
His heart now melts, now leaps, now burns, 35
With reverence, hope, and love.
Hence guilty joys, distastes, surmises,
Hence false tears, deceits, disguises,
Dangers, doubts, delays, surprises,
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine. 49
Purest love's unwasting treasure,
Constant faith, fair hope, long leisure,
Days of ease, and nights of pleasure;
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND MORTIMER*. Such 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 every 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; 10
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 interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious Only in thy fall. f0
And sure if aught below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine; A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all passion, and all pride, The rage of pow'r, the blast of public breath, 85 The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made,
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade •.
'Ti9 her's the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Kejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. JO
When Interest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd desert, and all the vain,
• Sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. ParneU's poems, published by our author after the said Karl's imprisonment in the lower and retreat into the country, in the yearlyyl.
She waits, or to the scaffold or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now she shades thy evening walk with bays; 35
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praisej
Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. 4*
TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.
SECRETARY OF STATE, 1720.
A soul, as full of worth as void of pride,
Which nothing seeks to shew, or needs to, hide,
Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes,
And boasts a warmth that from no passion flows.
A face untaught to feign; a judging eye, 5
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know kings and fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a friend by servile ways, 30
Nor wish to lose a foe these virtues raise;
But candid, free, sincere, as you began,
Proceed—a minister, but still a man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Asham'd of any friend, not ev'n of me: 15
The patriot's plain but untrod path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of you.
TO MR. ADDISON.
OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES OS MEDALS.
See the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears!
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vauish'd like their dead!
VOL, H. - I
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, 6
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd:
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods;
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey,
Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! U
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage:
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame, U
Some buried marble half preserves a name:
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust; 10
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore M
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
Couvinc'd, she now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.
A narrow orb eacn crowded conquest keeps, 25
Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine:
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold. SO
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and name:
, In one short view subjected to our eye,
Gods, emperor^ heroes, sages, beauties, lie.
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, S3
Tli' inscription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes,
One grasps a Cccrops in ecstatic dreams. 40
Poor Vadi«s, long with learned spleen devour'd
Cap taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd -
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: 45
Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush these studies thy regard engage;
These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage; 50
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.
Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd, 55
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
There warriors frowning in historic brass:
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; 60
Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shewn,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison:
Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore another Pollio shine;
With aspect open shall erect his head, 65
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,—
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; 70
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd."
TO MR. JERVAS,
WITH MR. Dryden's TRANSLATION OF FRESNOY's
ART OF PAINTING*.
This verse be thine, my friend! nor thou refuse.
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.