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of OXFORD and Earl MORTIMER. UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung, S

'Till Death untimely stop'd his tuneful tongues Oh just beheld, and loft! admir’d and mourn'd! With foftest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Bleft in each science, blest in ev'ry strain !

5 Dear to the Muse! 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 croud to quit,
And pleas’d to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A figh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnelle in his living lays,
Who, careless now of Int'rest, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e’er was great ;

NOT E S. Epift. to Robert Earl of Oxford.) This Epistle was sent to the Earl of Oxford with Dr. Parnelle's Poems published by our Author, after the faid Earl's Imprisonment in the Tower, and Retreat into the Country, in the Year # D 2


1721. P.


Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fal}. *

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:
A Soul supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Passion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow's, 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 silent shade :
'Tis hers, 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 desert, 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, the shades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to.praise)
Ev'n now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy various Day,
Thro’ Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.

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Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,
Which nothing seeks to Thew, or needs to

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 severe upon a rising Lye,
And strikes a blush thro' fronthefs Flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then scorn to gain a Friend by servile ways, IO
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)
Alham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me: 15
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.

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To Mr. J ER VAS, With Mr. DRÝDEN'S Translation of

FRESNOY's Art of Painting.

THis verife be things

, my friends nor thou

HIş Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou

This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
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 conspire
Fresnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire :
And reading with, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name; , I1
Like them to shine thro? long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my, rage.

Smit with the love of Şifter-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling fame with fame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, 15 And each from each contract new strength and light.

NOTES. Epist. 10 Mr. Fervas.] This Epistle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and o. riginally printed in 1717. P.


How oft in pleasing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-furis roll unperceiv'd away ? :
How oft our lowly growing works imparty
While Images reflect from art to art?

20 How oft review ; each finding like a friend Something to blame, and something to commend?

What flatt'ring scenes our wandring fancy wrought, Rome's pompous glories rising to our thought ! Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly, 25 Fird with Ideas of fair Italy. With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn, Or wait inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn: With thee repose, where Tully once was laid, Or seek fome Ruin's formidable fhade : 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 ligh: Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare, 35 Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air, Carracci's strength, Correggio's softer line, Paulo's free stroke, and Titian's warmth divine.

How finish'd with illustrious toil appears This small, well-polith'd Gem, the * work of years! Yet still how faint by precept is exprest 41 The living image in the painter's breast ? 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.

NO I e s. Fresnoy employed above twenty Years in finishing his Poem. P. #D4


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