Mr. JOHN HUGHES,
ON HIS POEM, ENTITLED,
THE TRIUMPH OF PEACE.
INSPIR'D by what melodious HUGHES has fung,
I'll tune a lyre, that long has lain unftrung:
Awak'd from drowsy floth, and foothing rest,
Poetic transports fire my ravish'd breast!
What pleasure must retiring DRYDEN find,
To fee that art his fkilful Mufe refin'd,
So much improv'd by. those he leaves behind!
So when a father fees a careful fon
Enlarge thofe coffers, which were firft his own,
With joy to heaven he lifts his aged eyes,
Bleffes his profperous heir, and calmly dies.
May all your fortune, like your numbers, shine,
And smoothly flow, without one rugged line!
Till we confess the genius is the fame,
That guides your fortune, and poetic flame.
So when of old fome sportive amorous god
Vouchfaf'd awhile to leave his bleft abode,
In whatsoever form the guest appear'd,
His heavenly luftre fhone, and was rever'd.
Catharine-Hall,
Cambridge.
W. Worts. February, 1697.
To the MEMORY of Mr. HUGHES.
OUND HUGHES's humble, though distinguish'd
The Mufes, wreath'd with baleful cyprefs, mourn ;
In every face a deep diftrefs appears,
Each eye o'erflows with tributary tears :
Such was the fcene, when, by the gods requir'd,
Majestic Homer from the world retir'd:
Such grief the Nine o'er Maro's tomb bestow'd;
And tears like thefe for Addifon late flow'd.
Snatch'd from the earth, above its trifling praise,
Thee, HUGHES, to happier climes thy fate conveys; 10
Eas'd of its load, thy gentle spirit roves,
Through realms refulgent, and celeftial groves;
The toils of life, the pangs of death, are o'er,
And care, and pain, and ficknefs, are no more.
O may the spot that holds thy bleft remains,
(The nobleft fpoil earth's fpacious breast contains,)
Its tribute pay; may richest flowers around,
Spring lightly forth, and mark the facred ground;
There may thy bays its fhady honours spread,
And o'er thy urn eternal odours fhed;
*Daughter of Judge Cowper, afterwards married to Col. Martin Madan, author of the Progrefs of Poetry, &c. and ftill living, an ornament to her sex and age. Another of her compofitions is perfixed to the Poems of Mr. Pope. N.
Immortal as thy fame, and verfe, ftill grow,
Till thofe fhall ceafe to live, and Thames to flow.
Nature fubdued foretold the great decline,
And every heart was plung'd in grief, but thine;
Thy foul, ferene, the conflict did maintain,
And trac'd the phantom death, in years of pain;
Not
years of pain thy steady mind alarm'd,
By judgment ftrengthen'd, and with virtue arm'd;
Still like thyself, when finking life ebb'd low,
Nor rafhly dar'd, nor meanly fear'd the blow;
Loofe to the world, of every grace poffeft,
Greatly refign'd, thou sought'it the stranger, REST:
Firm as his fate, fo thy own Phocyas dy'd,
While the baib'd arrow trembled in his fide.
Drawn by thy pen, the theory we fee;
The practic part, too foon! beheld in thee.
Who now shall strike the lyre with skill divine,
Who to harmonious founds *harinonious numbers join! Who the rapacious tide of vice control,
And, while they charin the fenfe, reform the foul! 40
In whom the lovely fitter-arts unite,
With virtue, folid fenfe, and boundless wit?
Such was the turn of thy exalted mind,
Sparkling as polifh'd gems, as pureft gold refin'd.
Great Ruler of our paffions! who with art
Subdued the fierce, and warm'd the frozen heart,
Bid glory in our breafts with temper beat,
And valour, feperate from: feverisl heat,
* Opera of Calypfo and Telemachus.
Love, in its true, its genuine luftre rise,
And, in Eudocia, bid it charm our eyes.
Virtue diftreft, thy happy lines difclofe,
With more of triumph than a conqueror knows;
Touch'd by thy hand, our stubborn tempers bend,
And flowing tears the well-wrought scene attend,
That filent eloquence thy power approv'd
The caufe fo great, 'twas generous to be mov'd.
What pleasure can the bursting heart poffefs,
In the laff parting, and severe distress ?
Can fame, wealth, honour, titles, joy beftow,
And make the labouring breaft with transport glow? 60
These gaudy trifles gild our morning bright,
But O! how weak their influence on our night!
Then fame, wealth, honour, titles, vainly bloom,
Nor dart one beam of comfort on the gloom;
But if the ftruggling foul a joy receives,
'Tis in the just applaufe, that conscious virtue gives:
This blameless pride the dying HUGHES pofleft,
Soften'd his pain, fat lightly on his breast,
And footh'd his unoffending foul to rest.
Free from the bigot's fears, or ftoick's pride,
Calm as our christian hero liv'd, he dy’d.
As on the utmost verge of life he stood,
Ready to plunge, and feize th' immortal good,
Collecting all his rays diffus'd, in one,
His laft great work with heighten'd luftre fhone; 75 There his juft fentiments, transferr'd, we view'd!
But, while our eyes the fhining path purfu'd,
And steep afcent his fteady judgment gain'd,
The fhining path, alas! alone remain'd.-
So when the fun to worlds unknown retires,
How ftrong! how boldly shoot his parting fires!
Larger his fetting orb our eyes confess,
Eager we gaze, and the full glory bless;
As o'er the heavens, fublime, his courfe extends,
With equal state, the radiant globe descends,
Sinks, in a cloud of gold, and azure bright,
And leaves, behind, gay tracks of beamy light.
F for ourselves the tears profufely flow,
Too justly we indulge the tender woe,
Since thou in virtue's robes waft richly drest,
And of fine arts abundantly poffeft!
But if we rather fhould congratulate
A friend's enlargement and exalted state;
Refign'd to Providence, what can we lefs
Than chearful hail thy long'd-for happiness,
Who now, releas'd from every piercing pain,
Doft in the realms of light triumphant reign!
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