able journey. But ever since, I have never been able to act or think, for that very evening our dear friend Thomson was buried. How it dampt all my joy, you, who knew him well, and how I loved him, can best feel. I really was not able to write you, and if the enclosed had not come last night, I question if I should now.
"Mr. Mitchell spent the evening with me; we remembered you kindly, and all surviving friends. Poor Mr. Lyttelton is in great grief, as indeed are all his friends, and even those that did not know him; - but I can add nothing to the enclosed, and therefore shall leave that melancholy subject,to us, but to him full of joy, on which account we ought to submit."
DOUBTFUL TO WHAT PATRON HE SHOULD ADDRESS HIS POEM CALLED WINTER.
SOME peers, perhaps, have skill to judge, 'tis true;
Yet no mean prospect bounds the Muse's view.
Firm in your native strength, thus nobly shown,
Slight such delusive props, and stand alone:
Fruitless dependance oft has found too late
That greatness rarely dwells among the great.
Patrons are Nature's nobles, not the state's,
And wit 's a title no broad seal creates:
E'en kings, from whose high source all honours flow
Are poor in power when they would souls bestow.
Heedless of fortune, then, look down on state,
Balanced within by reason's conscious weight:
Divinely proud of independent will,
Prince of your passions, live their sovereign still.
He who stoops safe beneath a patron's shade
Shines, like the moon, but by another's aid:
Free Truth should open and unbias'd steer,
Strong as heaven's heat, and as its brightness clear.
O, swell not then the bosoms of the vain
With false conceit that you protection gain:
Poets, like you, their own protectors stand,
Placed above aid from pride's inferior hand.
Time, that devours the lord's unlasting name,
Shall lend her soundless depth to float your fame.
On verse like yours no smiles from power expect,
Born with a worth that doom'd you to neglect:
Yet, would your wit be noised, reflect no more;
Let the smooth veil of flattery silk you o'er;
Aptly attach'd, the court's soft climate try;
Learn your pen's duty from your patron's eye.
Ductile of soul, each pliant purpose wind,
And tracing interest close, leave doubt behind:
Then shall your name strike loud the public ear,
For through good fortune virtue's self shines clear.
But, in defiance of our taste, to charm, And fancy's force with judgment's caution arm; Disturb, with busy thought, so lull'd an age, And plant strong meanings o'er the peaceful page; Impregnate sound with sense, teach nature art, And warm e'en Winter till it thaws the heartHow could you thus your country's rules transgress, Yet think of patrons, and presume success!
O gaudy Summer, veil thy blushing head,
Dull is thy sun, and all thy beauties dead:
From thy short nights, and noisy mirthful day,
My kindling thoughts, disdainful, turn away.
Majestic Winter with his floods appears,
And o'er the world his awful terrors rears:
From north to south his train dispreading slow,
Blue frost, bleak rain, and fleecy-footed snow.
In thee, sad Winter, I a kindred find,
Far more related to poor human kind;
To thee my gently drooping head I bend,
Thy sigh my sister, and thy tear my friend!
On thee I muse, and in thy hastening sun,
See life expiring ere 'tis well begun.
Thy sickening ray and venerable gloom Show life's last scene, the solitary tomb; But thou art safe, so shaded by the bays, Immortal in the noblest poet's praise.
From time and death he will thy beauties save;
Oh may such numbers weep o'er Mira's grave!
Secure and glorious would her ashes lie,
Till Nature fade-and all the Seasons die.
ON HIS PUBLISHING THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEM, CALLED WINTER.
CHARM'D and instructed by thy powerful song,
I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long:
This debt of gratitude at length receive;
Warmly sincere, 'tis all a friend can give.
Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name,
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame.
Through all thy various Winter full are found
Magnificence of thought and pomp of sound,
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace,
And goodness, eminent in power and place.
For this, the wise, the knowing few commend
With zealous joy — for thou art virtue's friend:
Even age and truth severe, in reading thee,
That Heaven inspires the muse, convinced agree.
Thus I dare sing of merit faintly known,
Friendless, supported by itself alone:
For those whose aided will could lift thee high
In fortune, see not with discernment's eye.
Nor place nor power bestows the sight refined,
And wealth enlarges not the narrow mind.
How couldst thou think of such, and write so well? Or hope reward by daring to excel?
Unskilful of the age! untaught to gain
Those favours which the fawning base obtain!
A thousand shameful arts to thee unknown,
Falsehood and flattery must be first thy own.
If thy loved country lingers in thy breast,
Thou must drive out the unprofitable guest;
Extinguish each bright aim that kindles there,
And centre in thyself thy every care.
But hence that vileness! pleased to charm mankind, Cast each low thought of interest far behind:
Neglected into noble scorn, away
From that worn path where vulgar poets stray!
Inglorious herd, profuse of venal lays,
And by the pride despised they stoop to praise!
Thou, careless of the statesman's smile or frown,
Tread that straight way that leads to fair renown.
By virtue guided, and by glory fired,
And by reluctant envy slow admired,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind:
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought,
What Heaven approves and what the Muse has taught;
Where thy power fails, unable to go on,
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone.
So shall thy name through ages brightening shine,
And distant praise from worth unborn be thine:
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard,
And find a glorious, though a late reward.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON.
THE SCENE ON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave;
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
|