He made one nature, and another found;
Both in one page with master-s rokes abound:
His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle,
Bids us no longer at our nurses smile.
Of lost historians we almost complain,
Nor think it the creation of his brain.
Who lives when his Othello's in a trance?
With his great Talbot, * too, he conquer'd France,
Long may we hope brave Talbot's blood will run
In great descendents; Shakespeare has but one;
And him, my Lord, permit me not to name,
But in kind silence spare his rival's shame :---
Yet I in vain that author would suppress;
What cann't be greater cannot be made less:
Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,
And to himself great Agamemnon name.
Should Shakespeare rise, unbless'd with Talbot's Ev'n Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle; But if that reigning star propitious shine,
And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine,
Ev'n I, by far the meanest of your age,
Shall not repent my passion for the stage.
Thus did the will-almighty disallow,
No human force could pluck the golden-bough,
Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command, 340
And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand.
An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.
Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write
To you the Muses glory and delight,
Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,
And mortify an author with your praise.
Praise wounds a noble mind when 'tis not due;
But Censure's self will please, my Lord, from you.
Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend
To point them out, and teach us how to mend,
What tho' the great man set his coffers wide,
That cannot gratify the poet's pride,
Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good,
Is best rewarded when best understood?
The Muses write for glory not for gold;
'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:
The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves
To speak a sense of what the Muse deserves;
The Muse, which from her Lansdown fears no wrong,
Best judge, as well as subject, of her song,
Should this great theme allure me farther still, 360
And I presume to use your patience ill,
The world would plead my cause, and none but you Will take disgust at what I now pursue.
Since what is meant my Muse cann't raise, I'll chuse A theme that's able to exalt my Muse.
For who, not void of thought, can Granville name, Without a spark of his immortal flame?
Whether we seek the patriot or the friend,
Let Bolingbroke, let Anna, recommend;
Whether we chuse to love or to admire,
You melt the tender, and th' ambitious fire.
Such native graces without thought abound,
And such familiar glories spread around,
As more incline the stander-by to raise
His value for himself, than you to praise.
Thus you befriend the most heroic way,
Bless all, on none an obligation lay;
So turn'd by Nature's hand for all that 's well,
'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel.
Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien;
You to be happy want not to be seen;
Tho' priz'd in public, you can smile alone,
Nor court an approbation but your own;
In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze
In wonder fix'd, tho' resolute to please,
You, were all blind, would still deserve applause,
The world's your glory's witness, not its cause;
That lies beyond the limits of the day,
Angels behold it, and their God obey.
You take delight in others' excellence,
A gift which Nature rarely does dispense:
Of all that breathe, 'tis you, perhaps, alone
Would be weli pleas'd to see yourself outdone.
You wish not those who shew your name respect,
So little worth as might excuse neglect;
Nor are in pain lest merit you should know,
Nor shun the well-deserver as a foe;
A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim
To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame.
You wish your country's good; that told, so well Your pow'rs are known, th' event I need not tell. 401 When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd;
That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd:
And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought,
Who meant he conquer'd only said he fought.
When you, my Lord, to sylvan scenes retreat,
(No crowds around for pleasure or for state)
You are not cast upon a stranger land,
And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;
Nor are you by receiv'd example taught,
In toys to shun the disciple of thought;
But, unconfin'd by bounds of time and place,
You chuse companions from all human race;
Converse with those the deluge swept away,
Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day.
Books not so much inform, as give consent
To those ideas your own thoughts present;
Your only gain, from turning volumes o'er,
Is finding cause to like yourself the more.
In Grecian sages you are only taught
With more respect to value your own thought.
Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew
Those precepts we behold alive in you.
Your life is so adjusted to their schools,
It makes that history they meant for rules.
What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise
Within your breast, and lift you to the skies,
When in each learned page that you unfold,
You find some part of your own conduct told?
So pleas'd and so surpris'd Æneas stood,
And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood,
When far from Trojan shores the hero spy'd
His story shining forth in all its pride;
Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand
The praise and wonder of a foreign land.
He knows not half his being who's confin'd
In converse and reflection on mankind:
Your soul, which understands her charter well,
Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell;
Ranges eternity without the leave
Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave,
When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,
When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss
In heav'nly numbers you your soul unbend,
And for your ease to deathless fame descend.
Ye Kings! would ye true greatness understand?
Read Seneca, grown rich in Granville's hand. *
Behold the glories of your life complete!
Still at a flow, and permanently great:
New moments shed new pleasures as they fly,
And yet your greatest is that you must die.
* See his Lordship's tragedy, entitled Heroic Love. Volume 111.
|