AECENAS, whofe high lineage fprings
From a long race of ancient kings,
Patron, and friend! thy honour'd name
At once is my defence, and fame.
There are, who with fond tranfport praise
The chariot thundering in the race ;.
Where conqueft won, and palms bestow'd,.
Lift the proud mortal to a God.
The man, who courts the people's voice,
And doats on offices and noise;
Or they, who till the peaceful fields,
And reap what bounteous nature yields,
Unmov'd, the merchant's wealth behold,
Nor hazard happiness for gold;
Untempted by whole worlds of gain
To ftem the billows of the main.
The merchant, when the form invades,
Envies the quiet of the fhades;
But foon relaunches from the fhore,
Dreading the crime of being poor!
Some careless waste the mirthful day
With generous wines, and wanton play,.
Indulgent of the genial hour,.
By fpring, or rill, or fhade, or bower.
Some hear with joy the clanging jar
Of trumpets, that alarm to war,
While matrons tremble at the breath
That calls their fons to arms and death,
The sportsinan, train’d in storms, defies
The chilling blast, and freezing skies:
Unmindful of his bride, in vain
Soft beauty pleads! along the plain
The ftag he chaces, or beguiles
The furious boar into his toils.
For you the blooming ivy grows,
Proud to adorn your learned brows;
Patron of letters you arife,
Grow to a God, and mount the fkies.
Humbly in breezy fhades I ftray
Where Sylvans dance, and Satyrs play;
Contented to advance my claim,
Only o'er men without a name;
Tranfcribing what the Mufes fing
Harmonious to the pipe or ftring.
But if indulgently you deign
To rank me with the Lyric train,
Aloft the towering Muse shall rise
On bolder wings, and gain the skies.
An Epiftle to my Friend Mr..ELIJAH FENTON, Author of Mariamne, a Tragedy. 1726.
HY art thou flow to ftrike. th harmonious fhell,
Averse, to fing, who know'st to sing so well?
If thy proud Muse the tragic, buskin wears,
Great Sophocles revives and re-appears-;
While regularly bold, fhe nobly fings
Strains, worthy to detain the ears of kings;
If by thy hand th' * Homeric lyre be ftrung,
The lyre returns fuch founds as Homer fung:
The kind compulfion of a friend obey,
And though reluctant, fwell the lofty lay;
Then liftening groves once more shall catch the found,
While Grecian Mufes fing on. British ground..
Thus calnt and filent thy own + Proteus roves
Through pearly mazes, and through coral groves ;,
But when, emerging from the azure main,
Coercive bands th' unwilling God constrain,
Then heaves his bofom with prophetic fires,
And his tongue fpeaks fublime, what heaven inspires.
Envy, 'tis true, with barbarous rage, invades
What ev'n fierce lightning fpares, the laurel fhades
* Mr. Fenton tranflated four books of the Odyssey. See the ftory of Proteus, Odyssey, lib. 4. tranflated by Mr. Fenton.
And critics, bias'd by mistaken rules,
Like Turkish zealots, reverence none but fools.
But praise from fuch injurious tongues is fhame,
They rail the happy author into fame;
Thus Phoebus through the zodiac takes his way,
And rifes amid monsters into day:
ON vileness of mankind! when writing well
Becomes a crime, and danger to excel!
While noble scorn, my friend, fuch insults sees,
And flies from towns to wilds, from men to trees.
Free from the luft of wealth, and glittering fnares,.
That make th' unhappy Great in love with cares,
Me humble joys in calm retirement please,
A filent happiness, and learned eafe,
Deny me grandeur,, heaven, but goodness grant!
A king is lefs illuftrious than a faint :
Hail, holy virtue! come,, thou heavenly gueft,
Come, fix thy pleafing empire in my breast!
* Thou know'ft her influence, friend! thy chearful mein.
Proclains the innocence and peace within;
Such joys as none but fons of virtue know,
Shine in thy face, and in thy bofom glow.
So when the holy mount the prophet trod,
And talk'd familiar as a Friend with God;.
*Thou feel'st her power, my friend, &c. .
Celestial radiance every feature shed,
And ambient glories dawn'd around his head.
Sure what th' unthinking Great mistaken call
Their happiness, is folly, folly all!
Like lofty mountains in the clouds they hide
Their haughty heads, but swell with barren pride;
And while low vales in ufeful beauty lie,
Heave their proud naked summits to the sky :
In honour, as in place, ye great, tranfcend!
An angel fal'n, degenerates to a fiend :
Th' all-chearing fun is honour'd with his shrines,
Not, that he moves aloft, but that he fhines:
Why flames the ftar on Walpole's generous breast?
Not that he 's higheft, but because he 's beft,
Fond to oblige, in bleffing others, bleft.
How wondrous few, by avarice uncontrol'd,
Have virtue to fubdue the thirst of gold!
The fhining dirt the fordid wretch enfnares
To buy, with mighty treafures, mighty cares:
Blindly he courts, mifguided by the will,
A fpecious good, and meets a real ill;
So when Ulyffes plough'd the furgy main ;
When now in view appear'd his native reign,
His wayward mates th' Æolian bag unbind,
Expecting treasures, but out rush'd a wind;
The fudden hurricane in thunder roars,
Buffets the bark, and whirls it from the fhores.
O heaven! by what vain paffions man is fway'd, Proud of his reafon, by his will betray'd!
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