Long fhalt thou ftand from rage and faction free,
And teach us long to love the king, through thee:
Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe,
And make him tremble when he strikes the blow;
While honour, gratitude, affection join
To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline;
(Illuftrious doom!) the great, when thus difplac'd,
With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd,
In aweful ruin, like Rome's fenate, fall,
The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul.
No doubt, to genius fome reward is due,
(Excluding that, were fatirizing you ;)
But yet, believe thy undefigning friend,
When truth and genius for thy choice contend,
Though both have weight when in the balance cast,
Let probity be first, and parts the last.
On these foundations if thou dar'st be great,
And check the growth of folly and deceit ;
When party rage shall droop through length of days, And calumny be ripen'd into praise,
Then future times fhall to thy worth allow
That fame, which envy would call flattery now.
Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit,
Has pointed out the rocks where others split;
By that infpir'd, though ftranger to the Nine,
And negligent of any fame--but thine,
I take the friendly, but fuperfluous part;
You act from nature what I teach from art.
OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING EPISTLE.
66 Sopitos fufcitat ignes."
ROM man's too curious and impatient fight,
The future, heaven involves in thickest night.
Credit grey hairs: though freedom much we boast,
Some least perform, what they determine most.
What fudden changes our refolves betray?
To-morrow is a fatire on to-day,
And fhews its weakness. Whom shall men believe,
When conftantly themselves, themselves deceive?
Long had I bid my once-lov'd Mufe adieu;
You warm old age; my paffion burns anew.
How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind!
What power of words! what skill in dark mankind!
Polite the conduct; generous the defign;
And beauty files, and strength fuftains, each line.
Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, befet;
Your wit has caught them in its golden net.
But what ftrikes home with most exalted grace Is, haughty genius taught to know its place; And, where worth fhines, its humbled crest to bend,, With zeal devoted to that godlike end.
When we difcern fo rich a vein of fenfe,
Through the fmooth flow of pureft eloquence;
'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd
O'er boundless wealth, o'er fhining beds of gold.
IV..
But whence fo finish'd, fo refin'd a piece?
The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece;
The Genius bids the moderns doubt their claim,,
And flowly take poffeffion of the fame.
But I nor know, nor care by whom 'twas writ,
Enough for me that 'tis from human wit,
That fooths my pride: all glory in the pen
Which has done honour to the race of men.
But this have others done; a like applause
An ancient and a modern Horace draws.
But they to glory by degrees arose,
Meridian luftre you, at once, difclose.
'Tis continence of mind, unknown before,
To write so well, and yet to write no more.
More bright renown can human nature claim,
Than to deferve, and fly immortal fame ?
Next to the godlike praife of writing well,
Is on that praife with just delight to dwell.
O, for fome God my drooping foul to raise!
That I might imitate, as well as praife;'
For all commend ev'n foes your fame confefs;
Nor would Augustus' age have 'priz'd it less;
An age, which had not held it's pride fo long,
But for the want of fo compleat a fong.
A golden period fhall from you commence :
Peace shall be fign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense ;-
Whether your genius or your rank they view,
The Mufes find their Halifax in you.
Like him fucceed! nor think my zeal is shewn
For you; 'tis Britain's intereft, not your own:
For lofty stations are but golden fnares,
Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares..
I would proceed, but age has chill'd my
'Twas a fhort fever, and I'm cool again.
Though life I hate, methinks I could renew
Its tastelefs, painful course, to fing of you.
When such the subject, who shall curb his flight ?
When fuch your genius, who fhall dare to write?
In pure refpect, I give my rhyming o'er,
And, to commend you most, commend no more.
Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coaft
Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghoft;
The bard will fmile. A last, a long farewell!
Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell;
There wait the friendly stroke that fets me free,
And think of immortality and thee
My ftrains are number'd by the tuneful Nine;
Each maid prefents her thanks, and all prefent thee
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