Sages and chiefs long since had birth Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! MISCELLANIES. ON RECEIVING FROM THE RIGHT HON. LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY A Standish and Two Pens. YES, I beheld th' Athenian queen Descend in all her sober charms; And, Take,' she said, and smil'd serene, 'Take at this hand celestial arms : Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field, This steel shall stab it to the heart.' Aw'd, on my bended knees I fell, What well? what weapon?" Flavia cries, 'But, friend, take heed whom you attack; You'd write as smooth again on glass, Athenian queen! and sober charms! Come, if you'll be a quiet soul, Of those that sing of these poor eyes. EPISTLE TO ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER: Sent to the Earl of Oxford, with Dr. Parnell's Poems, published by our Author, after the said Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower and Retreat into the Country, in the Year 1721. SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung, Till death uutimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain! Dear to the muse! to Harley dear---in vain ! For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dext'rous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit. Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear (A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear), Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days, And sure, if aught below the seats divine In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The muse attends thee to thy silent shade: 'Tis hers the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When interest 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 lingering friend has bid farewel. Ev'n now she shades thy evening-walk with bays (No hireling she, no prostitute to praise); Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sun-set of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that Mortimer is he. EPISTLE TO JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. A Secretary of State in the Year 1720. SOUL as full of worth as void of pride, Which nor to guilt nor fear its caution owes, That darts severe upon a rising lie, And strikes a blush through frontless flattery: } All this thou wert; and being this before, EPISTLE TO MR. JERVAS, With Mr. Dryden's Translation of Fresnoy's Art of Painting. This Epistle, and the two following, were written some years before the rest, and originally printed in 1717. 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 every line; Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass, And from the canvass 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 through 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; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light. |