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My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft — by regular approach — not yet — First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
His study! with what authors is it stor'd ?
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call ;
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ;
Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ?
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
You too proceed ! make falling arts your care,
To Mr. Addison. ..
EPISTLE V. . OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS. This was originally written in the year 1715, when
Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of medals: it was some time before he was secretary of state ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's edition of his works; at which time his verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were
added, viz. in 1720. As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of avarice and profusion; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality, and was, therefore, a corollary to the third ; so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coins ; and is, therefore, a corollary to the fourth,
See the wild waste of all-devouring years ;
Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, 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.
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, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, Th'inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescenius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can 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: 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: 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, 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; Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison :