ROBERT Earl of OXFORD, and Earl MORTIMER.
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,
S''Till Death untimely ftop'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh just beheld, and loft! admir'd, and mourn'd!
With softeft manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in ev'ry strain!
Dear to the Mufe! to HARLEY dear-in vain!
For him, thou oft haft bid the World attend,
Fond to forget the Statesman in the Friend;
For SWIFT and him, despis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from Flattery to Wit.
Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of Int'reft, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall..
Epifle to Robert Earl of Oxford.] This Epiftle was fent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnell's Poems published by our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the year 1721.
And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine :
A Soul Supreme, in each hard inftance try'd,
Above all Pain, and Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blast of public breath,
The lust of Lucre, and the dread of Death.
In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made;
The Mufe attends thee to thy filent shade:
'Tis her's, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her sneaking 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 farewell.
Ev'n now, fhe fhades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays, 35 (No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praise)
Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy various Day,
Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.
EPISTLE
To JAMES CRAGGS, Esq.
SECRETARY OF STATE.
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 Lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless Flattery.
Secretary of State.] In the year 1720.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lose a Foe these Virtues raise;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minister, but still a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod path, purfue;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of You.
With Mr. DRYDEN's Translation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.
THIS Verfe be thine, my Friend, nor thou refufe
This, from no venal or ungrateful Mufe.
Whether thy hand strike out fome free defign,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous țints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these inftructive leaves, in which confpire
Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire :
And reading wifh, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name;
Epifle to Mr. Jervas.] This Epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.
Like them to shine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy fkill, 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.,
How oft in pleafing talks we wear the day,
While Summer-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 repofe, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable fhade:
While Fancy brings the vanifu'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new,
Here thy well-studied marbles fix our eye;
A fading Fresco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare,.
Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
Carracci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,
Paulo's free ftroke, and Titian's warmth divine.
How finish'd with illuftrious toil
This small, well-polish'd Gem, the work of years! 40
Yet still how faint by precept is exprefs'd
The living image in the painter's breaft?
Thence endless ftreams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glows
* Frefnoy employed above twenty years in finishing his Poem.
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