A soul supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, all passion, and all pride,
The rage of pow'r, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to desarts thy retreat is made,
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
'Tis her's the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Int'rest calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd desert, and all the vain,
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewell. Ev'n now she shades thy ev'ning walk with bays; 35 (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)
Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray,
- Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day;
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he.
To James Craggs, Esq. Secretary of State, 1720.
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,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush thro' 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,
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 e'en of me:
The patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of you.
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.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
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 these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire;
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine thro' long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.
Smit with the love of sister arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
*This Epistle, and the two following, were written some years before the rest, and originally printed in Volume III.
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
15
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft' in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While summer's-suns roll unperceiv'd away!
How oft' our slowly-growing works impart,
While images reflect from art to art!
How oft' review, each finding, like a friend,
Something to blame, and something to commend!
What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising 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 inspiring dreams at Maro's urn:
With thee repose, were Tully once was laid,
Or seek some ruin's formidable shade.
While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new :
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye,
And fading fresco here demands a sigh:
Each heav'nly piece, unweary'd, we compare ;
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air ; Caracci's strength; Corregio's softer line;
Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil, appears
This small, well-polish'd gem, the work of years* !
Yet still how faint by precept is exprest
The living image in the painter's breast?
*Fresnoy employed above 20 years in finishing his Poem.
Thence endless streams of fair ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Muse! at that name thy sacred sorrow shed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire;
Bid her be all that cheers or softens life,
The tender sister, daughter, friend, and wife;
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore,
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage, 55
Her modest cheek shall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower! that ev'ry season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race shall other hearts surprise,
And other beauties envy Worsley's eyes;
Each pleasing Blount shall endless smiles bestow,
And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh! lasting as those colours may they shine!
Free as thy stroke, yet faultless as thy line;
New graces yearly like thy works display,
Soft without weakness, without glaring gay;
Led by some rule that guides, but not constrains,
And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains:
The kindred arts shall in their praise conspire,,
One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.
Yet should the Graces all thy figures place,
And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face;
Yet should the Muses bid my numbers roll,
Strong as their charms, and gentle as their soul;
With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie,
And these be sung till Granville's Myra die:
Alas! how little from the grave we claim !
Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.
To Miss Blount, with the works of Voiture, 1717. In these gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
And all the writer lives in ev'ry line;
His easy art may happy nature seem;
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who, without flatt'ry, pleas'd the fair and great;
Still with esteem no less convers'd than read;
With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred;
His heart, his mistress and his friend did share,
His time, the Muse, the witty and the fair.
Thus wisely careless, innocently gay,
Cheerful he play'd the trifle, life, away;
Till Fate, scarce felt, his gentle breath supprest,
As smiling infants sport themselves to rest.
Ev'n rival wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd, who never mourn'd before;
The truest hearts for Voiture heav'd with sighs;
Voiture was wept by all the brightest eyes:
The Smiles and Loves had dy'd in Voiture's death,
But that for ever in his lines they breathe.
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