True gen'rous spirits prosp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish virtue when distrest;
But ere our mighty lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountains' sides,
To find the seat where harmony resides?
Why touch we not so soft the silver lute,
The cheerful hautboy, and the mellow flute?
'Tis not the Italian clime improves the sound,
But there the patrons of her sons are found.
Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mecenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (O cruel stars) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
W rite ranc'rous libels to reform the state:
Or if you chuse more sure and ready ways,
Spatter a minister with fulsome praise:
Launch out with freedom, flatter him enough;
Fear not, all men are dedication-proof.
Be bolder yet, you must go farther still,
Dip deep in gall thy mercenary quill."
He who his pen in party quarrels draw's,
Lists an hir'd bravo to support the cause;
He must indulge his patron's hate and spleen,
And stab the fame of those he ne'er has seen.
Why then should authors mourn their desp'rate case?
Be brave, do this, and then demand a place.
Why art thou poor? exert the gifts to rise,
And banish tim'rous virtue from thy eyes.
All this seems modern preface, where we 're told That wit is prais'd, but hungry lives and cold. Against th' ungrateful age these authors roar, And fancy learning starves because they're poor. Yet why should learning hope success at court? Why should our patriots virtue's cause support? 40 Why to true merit should they have regard? They know that virtue is its own reward. Yet let not me of grievances complain. Who (tho' the meanest of the Muses' train) Can boast subscriptions to my humble lays, And mingle profit with my little praise.
Ask Painting why she loves Hesperian air; Go view, she cries, my glorious labours there; There in rich palaces I reign in state,
And on the temple's lofty domes create.
The nobles view my works with knowing eyes,
They love the science, and the painter prize.
Why didst thou Kent! forego thy native land,
To emulate in picture Raphael's hand?
Think'st thou for this to raise thy name at home?
Go back, adorn the palaces of Rome;
There on the walls let thy just labours shine,
And Raphael live again in thy design.
Yet stay a while; call all thy genius forth,
For Burlington unbiass'd knows thy worth;
His judgment in thy master-strokes can trace
Titian's strong fire, and Guido's softer grace:
But, oh! consider, ere thy works appear,
Canst thou unhurt the tongue of Envy hear?
Censure will blame, her breath was ever spent
To blast the laurels of the eminent.
While Burlington's proportion'd columns rise,
Does not he stand the gaze of envious eyes?
Doors, windows, are condemn'd by passing fools,
Who know not that they damn Palladio's rules.
If Chandeis with a lib'ral hand bestow,
Censure imputes it all to pomp and show:
When, if the motive night were understood,
His daily pleasure is in doing good.
Had Pope with grovelling numbers fill'd his page, Dennis had never kindled into rage.
'Tis the sublime that hurts the critic's ease;
Write nonsense, and he reads and sleeps in peace.
Were Prior, Congreve, Swift, and Pope unknown,
Poor slander-selling Curll would be undone.
He who would free from malice pass his days,
Must live obscure, and never merit praise:
But let this tale to valliant Virtue tell
The daily perils of deserving well.
A crow was strutting o'er the stubbled plain,
Just as a lark descending clos'd his strain:
The crow bespoke him thus with solemn grace;
Thou most accomplish'd of the feather'd race!
What force of lungs! how clear! how sweet you sing!
And no bird soars upon a stronger wing.
The lark, who scorn'd soft flatt'ry, thus replies;
True, I sing sweet, and on strong pinion rise;
Yet let me pass my life from envy free,
For what advantage are these gifts to me?
My song confines me to the wiry cage;
My flight provokes the faulcon's fatal rage:
But as you pass, I hear the fowlers say,
To shoot at crows is powder flung away.
HENRIETTA DUCHESS OF MARLBRO'.
EXCUSE
XCUSE me, Madam, if amidst your tears
A Muse intrudes, a Muse who feels your cares:
Numbers, like music, can ev'n grief control,
And lull to peace the tumults of the soul.
If partners in our woes the mind relieve,
Consider for your loss ten thousands grieve;
Th' affliction burdens not your heart alone;
When Marlbro' dy'd, a nation gave a groan.
Could I recite the dang'rous toils he chose,
To bless his country with a fixt repose:
Could I recount the labours he o'ercame
To raise his country to the pitch of fame;
His councils, sieges, his victorious fights,
To save his country's laws and native rights,
No father (ev'ry gen'rous heart must own)
Has stronger fondness to his darling shown:
Britannia's sighs a double loss deplore,
Her father and her hero is no more.
Does Britannia only pay her debt of tears? Yes; Holland sighs, and for her freedom fears. When Gallia's monarch pour'd his wasteful bands, Like a wild deluge, o'er her level lands, She saw her frontier tow'rs in ruin lie, Ev'n Liberty had prun'd her wings to fly; Then Marlbro' came! defeated Gallia fled, And shatter'd Belgia rais'd her languid head, In him secure, as in her strongest mound, That keeps the raging sea within its bound. O Germany! remember Hockstet's plain, Where prostrate Gallia bled at ev'ry vein; Think on the rescue of th' imperial throne, Then think on Marlbro's death without a groan! Apollo kindly whispers me, "Be wise; "How to his glory shall thy numbers rise? "The force of verse another theme might raise, "But here the merit must transcend the praise. "Hast thou, presumptuous Bard! that godlike flame "Which with the sun shall last, and Marlbro's fame? "Then sing the man; but who can boast his fire? "Resign the task, and silently admire."
Yet shall he not in worthy lays be read? Raise Homer, call up Virgil from the dead.
|