A Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,
Which nothing feeks to thew, or needs to hile,
Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Cautioa owes,
And boasts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lie,
And ftrikes a bluth thro' frontis Flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Tortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lofe a Foe thefe Virtues raise;
But candid free, fincere as you began,
Proceed -a Minifter, but ftill a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Aham'd of any Friend, not even of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod path pursuez
If not, 'tis I must be afham'd of You.
With Mr. DRYDEN'S Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
THIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Mufe.
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at every 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
Frefnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire :
And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our findies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to fhine thro' long fucceeding age,
So juft thy fkill, fo regular my rage.
Smit with the love of Sifter-Arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new ftrength and light.
How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away?
How oft our flowly-growing works impart,
While Images reflect from art to art?
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and fomething 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 infpiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repofe where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable fhade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new,
Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye;
A fading Frefco here demands a figh:
Each heavenly piece unwearied we compare,
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's ftrength, Corregio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears
This fmall, well-polifh'd Gem, the work of years?
Yet ftill how faint by precept is exprefs'd
The living image in the painter's breast?
Thence endlefs ftreams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Mufe at that Name thy facred forrows fhed,
Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead:
*Frefnoy employed above twenty years in finish ing his Poem,
Call round her Tomb each object of desire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
Bid her be all that chears or foftens life,
The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this marble, and be vain no more!
Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage;
Her modeft check fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flower that every season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Chruchill's race fhall other hearts surprize,
And other Beauties envy Worley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount fhall endless fmiles beftow,
And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh lafting as thofe Colours may they shine, Free as thy ftroke, yet faultlefs as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weaknefs, without glaring gay; Led by fome rule, that guides, but not constr And finish'd more thro' happinefs than pains. The kindred Arts fhall in their praise conspire, One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre. Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on every face; Yet fhould the Mufes bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their f With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be fung 'till Granville's Myra die : Alas how little from the grave we claim! Thou but preferv'ft a Face, and I a Name.
With the WORKS of VOITURE:
IN thefe gay thoughts the Loves and Graces shine,
And all the Writer lives in every line;
His eafy art may happy Nature feem,
Trifles themselves are elegant in him.
Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate,
Who, without flattery, pleas'd the Fair and Great;
Still with efteem no lefs 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 wifely careless, innocently gay,
Chearful he play'd the trifle, Life, away;
"Till fate fcarce felt his gentle breath fuppreft,
As fmiling infants fport themselves to rest.
Even rival Wits did Voiture's death deplore,
And the gay mourn'd who never mourn'd before;
The trueft hearts for Voiture heav'd with fighs,
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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