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 juft beheld! and loft! admir'd and mourn'd! With fofteft manners, gentleft 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 haft bid the World attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For SWIFT and him, defpis'd the farce of ftate, The fober follies of the wife and great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.
Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear, (A figh the absent claims, the dead a tear) Recall thofe nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 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 inftance try'd, Above all Pain, and Paffion, and all Pride.
This Epiftle was fent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems published by, our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the year 1721.
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 Mufe attends thee to thy filent shade: 'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When Int'reft calls off all her sneaking train, And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain; She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the cell,
When the laft ling'ring friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now, she shades thy Ev'ning walk with bays, 35 (No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praife)
Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm Sun-fet of thy various Day, Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee, Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.
JAMES CRA G G S, EsQ
SECRETARY OF STATE*.
A 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 boafts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows. A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye, That darts fevere upon a rifing 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 fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways, Nor wish to lofe a Foe thefe Virtues raife; But candid, free, fincere, as you began, Proceed-a Minifter, but ftill 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.
With Mr. DRYDEN'S Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
THIS Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refufe This, from no venal or ungrateful Mufe.
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 mafs, And from the canvas call the mimic face: Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which confpire Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire: And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame, So mix'd our ftudies, and fo join'd our name; Like them to fhine 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;
• This Epistle, and the two following, were written fome years before
the reft, and originally printed in 1717.
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