Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.
And sure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:
A Soul fupreme, in each hard inftance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blaft of public breath, 25 The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.
In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent fhade:
'Tis hers, the brave man's lateft fteps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewel.
Ev'n now, she shades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays,
(No hireling fhe, no proftitute to praise)
Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-fet of thy various Day,
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he,
Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride, Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to hide,
Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boasts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rifing Lye,
And strikes a blush thro' frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways, 10
Nor wish to lose a Foe thefe Virtues raife;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minifter, but ftill a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afsham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue ;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of You.
Secretary of State.] In the Year 1720. P.
To Mr. JER VA S,
With Mr. DRYDEN'S Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
HIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou refufe
This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand ftrike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which confpire
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; 1
Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.
Smit with the love of Sifter-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new ftrength and light.
Epift. 10 Mr. Ferva.] This Epiftle, and the two following, were written 1ome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717. P.
How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away ?
How oft our flowly growing works impart,
While Images reflect from art to art?
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and fomething to commend?
What flatt'ring scenes our wand'ring fancy wrought,
Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy.
With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Qr feek fome Ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a new,
Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye;
A fading Fresco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare, 35
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's strength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illustrious toil appears
This fmall, well-polish'd Gem, the work of years!
Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
The living image in the painter's breaft?
Thence endless ftreams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies 45
An Angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Frefnoy employed above twenty Years in finishing his Poem. P.
Mufe! at that Name thy facred forrows fhed,
Those tears eternal, that embalm the dead:
Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
Bid her be all that chears or softens life,
The tender fister, daughter, friend and wife:
Bid her be all that makes mankind adore;
Then view this Marble, and be vain no more!
Yet still her charms in breathing paint engage;
Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age.
Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears,
Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years.
Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprize,
And other Beauties envy Worley's eyes;
Each pleafing Blount shall endless fmiles bestow,
And soft Belinda's blush for ever glow.
Oh lafting as thofe Colours may they fhine, Free as thy ftroke, yet faultless as thy line; New graces yearly like thy works display, Soft without weakness, without glaring gay; Led by fome rule, that guides, but not conftrains; And finish'd more thro' happiness than pains. The kindred Arts fhall in their praise confpire, One dip the pencil, and one ftring the lyre. Yet fhould the Graces all thy figures place, And breathe an air divine on ev'ry face; Yet fhould the Mufes bid my numbers roll Strong as their charms, and gentle as their foul; With Zeuxis' Helen thy Bridgewater vie, And these be fung 'till Granville's Myra die: Alas! how little from the grave we claim! Thou but preferv'ft a Face, and I a Name.
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