Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought; [taught. But genius must be born, and never can be This is your portion; this your native store; Heaven that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more.

Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need;

For 't is impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But whom you, muse and every grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and, oh, defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let the insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what those lines express: You merit more: nor could my love do less.

EPISTLE THE ELEVENTH.

TO MR. GRANVILLE, ON HIS EXCELLENT
TRADEGY, CALLED HEROIC LOVE.
AUSPICIOUS poet, wert thou not my friend,
How could I envy what I must commend!
But since 't is nature's law, in love and wit,
That youth should reign, and withering age
submit,

With less regret those laurels I resign,
Which, dying on my brows, revive on thine.
With better grace an ancient chief may yield
The long-contended honours of the field,
Than venture all his fortune at a cast,
And fight, like Hannibal, to lose at last.
Young princes, obstinate to win the prize,
Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
Old monarchs, though successful, still in doubt,
Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
Thine be the laurel, then; thy blooming age
Can best, if any can, support the stage;
Which so declines, that shortly we may see
Players and plays reduc'd to second infancy.
Sharp to the world, but thoughtless of renown,
They plot not on the stage, but on the town,
And, in despair their empty pit to fill,
Set up some foreign monster in a bill.
Thus they jog on still tricking, never thriving,
And murdering plays, which they miscall
reviving,

Our sense is nonsense, through their pipes convey'd;

Scarce can a poet know the play he made,

'Tis so disguis'd in death; nor thinks 't is he
That suffers in the mangled tragedy.
Thus Itys first was kill'd, and after dress'd
For his own sire, the chief invited guest.
I say not this of thy successful scenes,
Where thine was all the glory, theirs the gains.
With length of time, much judgment, and more
toil,

Not ill they acted what they could not spoil.
Their setting sun still shoots a glimmering ray,
Like ancient Rome, majestic in decay.
And better gleanings their worn soil can boast,
Than the crab-vintage of the neighbouring

coast.

This difference yet the judging world will see; Thou copiest Homer, and they copy thee.

EPISTLE THE TWELFTH.

TO MY FRIEND MR. MOTTEUX,* ON HIS TRA

GEDY CALLED BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.

"T is hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
That sacred art by heaven itself infus'd,
Which Moses, David, Solomon have us'd,
Is now to be no more: the muses' foes
Would sink their Maker's praises into prose.
Were they content to prune the lavish vine
Of straggling branches, and improve the wine,
Who but a madman would his thoughts defend?
All would submit; for all but fools will mend.
But when to common sense they give the lie,
And turn distorted words to blasphemy,
They give the scandal; and the wise discern
Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.
What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,

Let them to fires, their due desert, commit:
Nor when accus'd by me, let them complain:
Their faults, and not their function, I arraign.
Rebellion worse than witchcraft, they pursu'd,
The pulpit preach'd the crime, the people rued.
The stage was silenc'd; for the saints would
In fields perform'd their plotted tragedy. [see
But let us first reform, and then so live,
That we may teach our teachers to forgive:

Peter Motteux, to whom this piece is addressed, was born in Normandy, but settled as a merchant in London very young, and lived in repute. He died in a house of ill fame near the Strand, and was

supposed to have been murdered, in 1718. He pro

duced eleven dramatic pieces, and his Beauty in Distress is thought much the best of them: it was played in Lincoln's-inn-fields by Betterson's company in 1698. D.

Rebellion, worse than witchcraft] From 1 Sam.
For rebellion is as the sin of witch-

XV. 23. craft,' &c. T.

Our desk be plac'd below their lofty chairs;
Ours be the practice, as the precept theirs.
The moral part, at least, we may divide,
Humility reward, and punish pride;
Ambition, interest, avarice, accuse:
These are the province of a tragic muse.
These hast thou chosen; and the public voice
Has equall'd thy performance with thy choice.
Time, action, place, are so preserv'd by thee,
That e'en Corneille might with envy see
The alliance of his Tripled Unity.
Thy incidents, perhaps, too thick are sown;
But too much plenty is thy fault alone.

At least but two can that good crime commit,
Thou in design, and Wycherly in wit.
Let thy own Gauls condemn thee, if they dare,
Contented to be thinly regular:

[allay.

Born there, but not for them, our fruitful soil
With more increase rewards thy happy toil.
Their tongue enfeebled, is refin'd too much;
And, like pure gold, it bends at every touch:
Our sturdy Teuton yet will art obey,
More fit for manly thought and strengthen'd with
But whence art thou inspir'd, and thou alone,
To flourish in an idiom not thy own?
It moves our wonder, that a foreign guest
Should overmatch the most, and match the best.
In under-praising thy deserts, I wrong;
Here find the first deficience of our tongue:
Words, once my stock, are wanting to commend
So great a poet, and so good a friend.

EPISTLE THE THIRTEENTH,*

TO MY HONOURED KINSMAN JOHN DRYDEN, OF CHESTERTON, IN THE COUNTY OF HUNTINGDON, ESQ.

How bless'd is he,† who leads a country life,
Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age;
All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours

come,

From your award to wait their final doom:

This poem was written in 1699. The person to whom it is addressed was cousin german to the poet, and a younger brother of the baronet. D.

How bless'd is hel This is one of the most truly Horatian epistles in our language, comprehending a variety of topics and useful reflections, and sliding from subject to subject with ease and propriety. Writing this note in the year 1799, I am much struck with th lines that follow the 175th, as containing the soundest political truths. Dr. J. W.

And, foes before, return in friendship home. Without their cost, you terminate the cause; And save the expense of long litigious laws: Where suits are travers'd; and so little won, That he who conquers but last undone : Such are not your decrees; but so design'd, The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind Like your own soul, serene; a pattern of your mind.

Promoting concord, and composing strife, Lord of yourself, uncumber'd with a wife; Where, for a year, a month, perhaps a night, Long penitence succeeds a short delight: Minds are so hardly match'd, that e'en the first, Though pair'd by Heaven, in Paradise were

curs'd.

For man and woman, though in one they grow,
Yet, first or last, return again to two.
He to God's image, she to his was made;
So farther from the fount the stream at random
stray'd.

How could he stand, when put to double pain,
He must a weaker than himself sustain!
Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone,
Two wrestlers help to pull each other down.

Not that my verse would blemish all the fair; But yet if some be bad, 't is wisdom to beware; And better shun the bait than struggle in the

snare.

Thus have you shunn'd, and shun the married Trusting as little as you can to fate. [state,

No porter guards the passage of your door,
T' admit the wealthy and exclude the poor;
For God, who gave the riches, gave the heart,
To sanctify the whole, by giving part:
Heaven, who foresaw the will, the means has
wrought,

And to the second son a blessing brought:
The first-begotten had his father's share :
But
you, like Jacob, are Rebecca's heir.
So may your stores and fruitful fields increase;
And ever be you bless'd, who live to bless.
As Ceres sow'd, where'er her chariot flew;
As heaven in deserts rain'd the bread of dew,
So free to many, to relations most,
You feed with manna your own Israel host.

With crowds attended of your ancient race, You seek the champaign sports or sylvan chase : With well-breath'd beagles you surround the wood,

E'en then industrious of the common good:
And often have you brought the wily fox
To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks;
Chas'd even amid the folds; and made to

bleed,

Like felons, where they did the murderous deed, This fiery game your active youth maintain'd, Not yet by years extinguish'd,though restrain'd

You season still with sports your serious hours: For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours. The hare in pastures or in plains is found, Emblem of human life, who runs the round; And after all his wandering ways are done, His circle fills, and ends where he begun, Just as the setting meets the rising sun.

Thus princes ease their cares; but happier he Who seeks not pleasure through necessity, Than such as once on slippery thrones were plac'd;

And chasing,sigh to think themselves are chas'd.
So liv'd our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill,
And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.
The first physicians by debauch were made:
Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade,
Pity the generous kind their cares bestow
To search forbidden truths; (a sin to know :)
To which if human science could attain,
The doom of death, pronounc'd by God, were
vain.

In vain the leech would interpose delay;
Fate fastens first and vindicates the prey.
What help from art's endeavours can we have?
Gibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save:
But Maurus sweeps whole parishes, and peo-
ples every grave;

And no more mercy to mankind will use,
Than when he robb'd and murder'd Maro's muse
Wouldst thou be soon despatch'd, and perish
whole,

Trust Maurus with thy life, and Milbourn with
thy soul.
[food;
By chase our long-liv'd fathers earn'd their
Toil strung the nerves and purified the blood:
But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men,
Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten.
Better to hunt in fields for health unbought,
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise for cure on exercise depend;
God never made his work for man to mend.
The tree of knowledge once in Eden plac'd,
Was easy found, but was forbid the taste:
Oh, had our grandsire walk'd without his wife,
He first had sought the better plant of life!
Now both are lost: yet, wandering in the dark,
Physicians, for the tree, have found the bark:
They, lab'ring for relief of human kind,
With sharpen'd sight some remedies may find;
The apothecary train is wholly blind.
From files a random recipe they take,
And many deaths of one prescription make.

Gibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save:
But Maurus sweeps whole parishes, &c.]

Dr. Gibbons was a physician at this time justly in high esteem. By Maurus is meant Sir Richard Blackmore, physician to King William, and author of many epic poems. Milbourn was a nonjuring minister. D.

Garth,generous as his muse,prescribes and gives The shopman sells; and by destruction lives: Ungrateful tribe! who, like the viper's brood, From medicine issuing, suck their mother's blood!

Let these obey; and let the learn'd prescribe; That men may die, without a double bribe: Let them but under their superiors kill; When doctors first have sign'd the bloody bill; He scapes the best, who, nature to repair, [air. Draws physic from the fields, in draughts of vital

You hoard not health, for your own private But on the public spend the rich produce. [use; When, often urg'd, unwilling to be great, Your country calls you from your lov'd retreat, And sends to senates, charg'd with common care, [bear: Which none more shuns: and none can better Where could they find another form'd so fit, To poise, with solid sense, a sprightly wit? Were these both wanting, as they both abound, Where could so firm integrity be found? Well born, and wealthy, wanting no support, You steer betwixt the country and the court: Nor gratify whate'er the great desire, Nor grudging give what public needs require. Part must be left, a fund when foes invade; And part employ'd to roll the watʼry trade: E'en Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil, Requir'd a sabbath year to mend the meager soil.

Good senators (and such as you) so give, That kings may be supplied, the people thrive. And he, when want requires, is truly wise, Who slights not foreign aids, nor overbuys; But on our native strength, in time of need, relies.

Munster was bought, we boast not the success; Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace. Our foes, compell'd by need, have peace em

We saw the event that follow'd our success;
France, though pretending arms, pursu'd the
Oblig'd, by one sole treaty, to restore [peace;
What twenty years of war had won before.
Enough for Europe has our Albion fought:
Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.
When once the Persian King was put to flight,
The weary Macedons refus'd to fight:
Themselves their own mortality confess'd;
And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.
E'en victors are by victories undone ;
Thus Hannibal, with foreign laurels won, [own.
To Carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his
While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,
Why should we tempt the doubtful dye again?
In wars renew'd, uncertain of success;
Sure of a share, as umpires of the peace.

A patriot both the king and country serves:
Prerogative, and privilege, preserves;
Of each our laws the certain limit show;
One must not ebb, nor t'other overflow:
Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand;
The barriers of the state on either hand:
May neither overflow, for then they drown the
land.

When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode;
Like those that water'd once the paradise of
God.

Some overpoise of sway, by turns, they share;
In peace the people, and the prince in war;
Consuls of moderate power in calms were made;
When the Gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd.
Patriots, in peace, assert the people's right;
With noble stubbornness resisting might:
No lawless mandates from the court receive,
Nor lend by force, but in a body give.
Such was your generous grandsire: free to grant
In parliaments, that weigh'd their prince's want:
But so tenacious of the common cause,
As not to lend the king against his laws.
And in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie,
In bonds retain'd his birth-right liberty,
And sham'd oppression till it set him free.
O true descendant of a patriot line,
Who, while thou shar'st their lustre, lend'st them
Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see; [thine,
'Tis so far good, as it resembles thee:
The beauties to the original I owe ;
Which when I miss, my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred muses thy disgrace;
A poet is not born in every race.
Two of a house few ages can afford
One to perform, another to record.
Praiseworthy actions are by thee embrac❜d;
And 'tis my praise, to make thy praises last.
For e'en when death dissolves our human frame,
The soul returns to heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, verse preserves the fame.

EPISTLE THE FOURTEENTH.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER, PRINCIPAL
PAINTER TO HIS MAJESTY.

ONCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,
And still the sweet idea charms my mind:
True, she was dumb; for nature gaz'd so long,
Pleas'd with her work, that she forgot her tongue,
But, smiling, said, She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.
Such are thy pictures, Kneller: such thy skill,
That nature seems obedient to thy will:
Comes out and meets thy pencil in the draught;
Lives there, and wants but words to speak her
thought.

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine sounds, deceiv'd to that degree,
We think 't is somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light;
Yet, when we walk, they shoot before the sight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life
So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
And from their animated canvass came,
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy noble work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise; This is the least attendant on thy praise: From hence the rudiments of art began; A coal, or chalk, first imitated man: Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall, Gave outlines to the rude original: Ere canvass yet was strain'd, before the grace Of blended colours found their use and place, Or cypress tablets first receiv'd a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanc'd; As man grew polish'd, picture was enhanc'd: Greece added posture, shade, and perspective And then the mimic piece began to live. Yet perspective was lame, no distance true, But all came forward in one common view: No point of light was known, no bounds of art When light was there, it knew not to depart, But glaring on remoter objects play'd: Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome rais'd not art, but barely kept alive, And with old Greece unequally did strive: Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race Did all the matchless monuments deface. Then all the Muses in one ruin lie, And rhyme began to enervate poetry. Thus in a stupid military state, The pen and pencil find an equal fate.

Flat faces, such as would disgrace a skreen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unrais'd, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations, only born to fight.
Long time the sister arts, in iron sleep,
A heavy sabbath did supinely keep:
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.
Thence rose the Roman and the Lombard line:
One colour'd best, and one did best design.
Raphael's, like Homer's, was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.
Thy genius gives thee both; where true design,
Postures unforc'd, and lively colours join.
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language drest:
Where light to shades descending, plays, not
Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives. [strives,
of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;
With awe I ask his blessing ere I write ;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.
His soul inspires me, whlie thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight:
Bids thee, through me, be bold: with dauntless
Contemn the bad, and emulate the best. [breast
Like his thy critics in the attempt are lost:
When most they rail, know then they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof; a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth;
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter muse, though last in place,
Has seiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles a while, and so had I;
But
pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command: ;
The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent. [bears,
Though nature there her true resemblance
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.
So warm thy work, so glows the generous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely danie.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we engraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space, To speak the language of their native place: The painter widely stretches his command; Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land. From hence, my friend, all climates are your Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none. [own, All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live; And not seven cities, but the world would strive.

Sure some propitious planet then did smile, When first you were conducted to this isle : Our genius brought you here, to enlarge our fame;

For your good stars are every where the same. Thy matchless hand, of every region free, Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart To thee the examples of their wondrous art. Those masters then, but seen, not understood, With generous emulation fir'd thy blood: For what in nature's dawn the child admir'd, The youth endeavour'd, and the man acquir'd.

If yet thou hast not reach'd their high degree, 'T is only wanting to this age, not thee. Thy genius bounded by the times like mine Drudges on petty draughts, nor dare design A more exalted work, and more divine. For what a song, or senseless opera, Is to the living labour of a play; Or what a play to Virgil's work would be, Such is a single piece to history.

But we, who life bestow, ourselves must live; Kings cannot reign unless their subjects give; And they who pay the taxes bear the rule: Thus thou, sometimes, art forc'd to draw a fool: But so his follies in thy posture sink, The senseless idiot seeins at last to think. [vain, Good heaven! that sots and knaves should be so To wish their vile resemblance may remain! And stand recorded, at their own request, To future days, a libel or a jest

Else should we see your noble pencil trace Our unities of action, time, and place : A whole compos'd of parts, and those the best, With every various character exprest: Heroes at large, and at a nearer view ; Less, and at distance an ignobler crew. While all the figures in one action join, As tending to complete the main design.

More cannot be by mortal art exprest; But venerable age shall add the rest. For Time shall with his ready pencil stand; Retouch your figures with his ripening hand; Mellow your colours, and imbrown the teint; Add every grace, which time alone can grant To future ages shall your fame convey, And give more beauties than he takes away.