TO BE WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF MR. POYNTZ.
SUCH is thy form, O Poyntz, but who shall find
A hand, or colours, to express thy mind?
A mind unmov'd by every vulgar fear,
In a false world that dares to be sincere;
Wise without art; without ambition great;
Though firm, yet pliant; active, though sedate;
With all the richest stores of learning fraught,
Yet better still by native prndence taught;
That, fond the griefs of the distrest to heal,
Can pity frailties it could never feel;
That, when Misfortune sued, ne'er sought to know
What sect, what party, whether friend or foe;
That, fix'd on equal virtue's temperate laws,
Despises calumny, and shuns applause :
That, to its own perfections singly blind,
Would for another think this praise design'd.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. POPE.
FROM ROME, 1730.
IMMORTAL bard! for whom each Muse has wove
The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preserv'd our drooping genius to restore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After so many stars extinct in night,
The darken'd age's last remaining light!
To thee from Latian realms this verse is writ,
Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit;
For now no more these climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost;
From tyrants, and from priests, the Muses fly,
Daughters of Reason and of Liberty!
Nor Baiæ now nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincio rove;
To Thames's flowery borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where, cheer'd with summer rays,
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy Winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of Fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred Wisdom from her bounds is fled;
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.
Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd,
Born to instruct and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd;
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those horrid ruins better pleas'd to see
Than all the pomp of modern luxury.
As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flowers I strow'd, While with th' inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes Beheld the poet's awful form arise:
"Stranger," he said, "whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his master bear: "Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious tyre, If, high exalted on the throne of wit, Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit, No more let meaner satire dim the rays That flow majestic from thy nobler bays; In all the flowery paths of Pindus stray, But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way; Nor, when each soft engaging Muse is thine, Address the least attractive of the Nine.
"Of thee more worthy were thy task, to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise; To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd; Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway, But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.
"If these commands submissive thou receive, Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live, Envy to black Cocytus shall retire; And howl with furies in tormenting fire; Approving Time shall consecrate thy lays, And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."
IN THE YEAR 1730. FROM WORCESTERSHIRE. Strenua nos exercet inertia: navibus atque Quadrigis petimus bene vivere: quod petis, hic est; Est ulubris, animus si te non deficit æquus. Hor. FAVOURITE of Venus and the tuneful Nine, Pollio, by Nature form'd in courts to shine, Wilt thou once more a kind attention lend, To thy long absent and forgotten friend; Who, after seas and mountains wander'd o'er, Return'd at length to his own native shore, From all that's gay retir'd, and all that's great, Beneath the shades of his paternal seat, Has found that happiness he sought in vain On the fam'd banks of Tiber and of Seine ?
'Tis not to view the well-proportion'd pile, The charms of Titian's and of Raphael's style; At soft Italian sounds to melt away; Or in the fragrant groves of myrtle stray; That lulls the tumults of the soul to rest, Or makes the fond possessor truly blest. In our own breasts the source of pleasure lies, Still open, and still flowing to the wise; Not forc'd by toilsome art and wild desire Beyond the bounds of Nature to aspire, But, in its proper channels gliding fair; A common benefit, which all may share. Yet half mankind this easy good disdain, Nor relish happiness unbought by pain; [is vain.` False is their taste of bliss, and thence their search
So idle, yet so restless, are our minds,
We climb the Alps, and brave the raging winds;
Through various toils to seek content we roam,
Which with but thinking right were ours at home.
For not the ceaseless change of shifted place
Can from the heart a settled grief erase,
Nor can the purer balm of foreign air
Heal the distemper'd mind of aching care.
The wretch, by wild impatience driven to rove,
Vext with the pangs of ill-requited love,
From Pole to Pole the fatal arrow bears,
Whose rooted point his bleeeding bosom tears;
With equal pain each different clime he tries,
And is himself that torment which be flies.
For how should ills, which from our passions flow,
Be chang'd by Afric's heat, or Russia's snow?
Or how can aught but powerful reason cure
What from unthinking folly we endure?
Happy is he, and he alone, who knows
His heart's uneasy discord to compose;
In generous love of others' good, to find
The sweetest pleasures of the social mind;
To bound his wishes in their proper sphere;
To nourish pleasing hope, and conquer anxious fear:
This was the wisdom ancient sages taught,
This was the sovereign good they justly sought;
This to no place or climate is confin'd,
But the free native produce of the mind.
Nor think, my lord, that courts to you deny
The useful practice of philosophy:
Horace, the wisest of the tuneful choir,
Not always chose from greatness to retire;
But, in the palace of Augustus, knew
The same unerring maxims to pursue,
Which, in the Sabine or the Velian shade,
His study and his happiness he made.
May you, my friend, by his example taught,
View all the giddy scene with sober thought;
Undazzled every glittering folly see,
And in the midst of slavish forms be free;
In its own centre keep your steady mind,
Let Prudence guide you, but let Honour bind.
In show, in manners, act the courtier's part,
But be a country gentleman at heart.
ADVICE TO A LADY.
M.DCC.XXXI.
THE Counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,
Such truths as women seldom learn from men.
Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I show
What female vanity might fear to know.
Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere;
But greater your's, sincerity to bear.
Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends:
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.
Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays, And the most trusted guide the most betrays, Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amus'd, When most ye tyrannise, you 're most abus'd.
What is your sex's earliest, latest care, Your heart's supreme ambition?--To be fair. For this, the toilet every thought employs, Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule:
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move!
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.
Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;
For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,
Too strong for feeble woman to sustain:
Of those who claim it more than half have none;
And half of those who have it are undone.
Be still superior to your sex's arts, Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts: For you, the plainest is the wisest rule: A cunning woman is a knavish fool.
Be good yourself, nor think another's shame Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame. Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace At ministers, because they wish their place. Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;
Without, all beauty; and all peace within:
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form.
Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.
Seek to be good, but aim not to be great:
A woman's noblest station is retreat:
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.
To rougher man Ambition's task resign:
'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine;
To labour for a sunk corrupted state,
Or dare the rage of Envy, and be great.
One only care your gentle breasts should move,
Th' important business of your life is love;
To this great point direct your constant aim,
This makes your happiness, and this your fame.
Be never cool reserve with passion join'd;
With caution choose; but then be fondly kind.
The selfish heart, that but by halves is given,
Shall find no place in Love's delightful Heaven;
Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless:
The virtue of a lover is excess.
A maid unask'd may own a well-plac'd flame;
Not loving first, but loving wrong, is shame.
Contemn the little pride of giving pain,
Nor think that conquest justifies disdain.
Short is the period of insulting power:
Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour;
Soon will resume the empire which he gave,
And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.
Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,
Whose soul, entire by him she loves possest,
Feels every vanity in fondness lost,
And asks no power but that of pleasing most:
Hers is the bliss, in just return, to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her, inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.
But, lest harsh Care the lover's peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let Reason teach what Passion fain would hide,
That Hymen's bands by Prudence should be tied,
Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry Fortune on their union frown:
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more.
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain;
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief:
While both could easier their own sorrows bear,
Than the sad knowledge of each other's care.
Yet may you rather feel that virtuous pain,
Than sell your violated charms for gain;
Than wed the wretch whom you despise or hate,
For the vain glare of useless wealth or state.
The most abandoned prostitutes are they,
Who not to love, but avarice, fall a prey:
Nor aught avails the specious name of wife;
A maid so wedded is a whore for life.
Ev'n in the happiest choice, where favouring HeaHas equal love and easy fortune given, Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done: The prize of happiness must still be won: And oft, the careless find it to their cost, The lover in the husband may be lost; The Graces might alone his heart allure; They and the Virtues meeting must secure.
Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress Of care for him, and anxious tenderness. From kind concern about his weal or woe, Let each domestic duty seem to flow. The household sceptre if he bids you bear, Make it your pride his servant to appear: Endearing thus the common acts of life, The mistress still shall charm him in the wife; And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on, Before his eye perceives one beauty gone: Ev'n o'er your cold, your ever-sacred urn, His constant flame, shall unextinguish'd burn. Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder, to secure my own Against the power of those already known: For well you twist the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind, Skill'd every soft attraction to employ, Each flattering hope, and each alluring joy. I own your genius; and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1732.
WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear,
No other wit but her's approve :
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I do more Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grote Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When, fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.
THE heavy hours are almost past
That part my love and me:
My longing eyes may hope at last
Their only wish to see.
But how, my Delia, will you meet The man you 've lost so long? Will love in all your pulses beat,
And tremble on your tongue?
Will you in every look declare
Your heart is still the same; And heal each idly-anxious care
Our fears in absence frame?
Thus, Delia, thus I paint the scene, When shortly we shall meet; And try what yet remains between Of loitering time to cheat.
But, if the dream that soothes my mind
Shall false and groundless prove;
If I am doom'd at length to find
You have forgot to love:
All I of Venus ask, is this;
No more to let us join:
But grant me here the flattering bliss, To die, and think you mine.
DAMON AND DELIA.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE AND LYDIA. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1732.
TELL me, my Delia, tell me why
My kindest, fondest looks you fly?
What means this cloud upon your brow?
Have I offended? Tell me how!.
Some change has happen'd in your heart,
Some rival there has stol'n a part;
Reason these fears may disapprove:
But yet I fear, because I love.
First tell me, Damon, why to day
At Belvidera's feet you lay?
Why with such warmth her charms you prais'd,
And every trifling beauty rais'd,
As if you meant to let me see
Your flattery is not all for me?
Alas! too well your sex I knew,
Nor was so weak to think you true.
Unkind! my falsehood to upbraid,
When your own orders I obey'd;
You bid me try, by this deceit,
The notice of the world to cheat,
And hide, beneath another name,
The secret of our mutual flame.
Damon, your prudence I confess,
But let me wish it had been less;
Too well the lover's part you play'd,
With too much art your court you made;
Had it been only art, your eyes
Would not have join'd in the disguise..
Ah! cease thus idly to molest
With groundless fears thy virgin breast.
While thus at fancied wrongs you grieve,
To me a real pain you give.
Though well I might your truth distrust,
My foolish heart believes you just:
Reason this faith may disapprove;
But I believe, because I love..
IN IMITATION OF PASTOR FIDO.
(O primavera gioventu del anno.)
WRITTEN ABROAD IN 1729.
PARENT of blooming flowers and gay desires,
Youth of the tender year, delightful Spring,
At whose approach, inspir'd with equal fires,
The amorous nightingale and poet sing!
Again dost thou return, but not with thee Return the smiling hours I once possest; Blessings thou bring'st to others, but to me The sad remembrance that I once was blest.
Thy faded charms, which Winter snatch'd away,
Renew'd in all their former lustre shine;
But, ah! no more shall hapless I be gay,
Or know the vernal joys that have been mine.
Though linnets sing, though flowers adorn the green, Though on their wings soft Zephyrs fragrance bear: Harsh is the music, joyless is the scene,
The odour faint: for Delia is not there.
Cheerless and cold I feel the genial Sun,
From thee while absent I in exile rove;
Thy lovely presence, fairest light, alone
Can warm my heart to gladness and to love.
PARTS OF AN ELEGY OF TIBULLUS. TRANSLATED, 1729-30.
(Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro.) LET others heap of wealth a shining store, And, much possessing, labour still for more; Let them, disquieted with dire alarms, Aspire to win a dangerous fame in arms: VOL. XIV.
Me tranquil poverty shall lull to rest,
Humbly secure, and indolently blest;
Warm'd by the blaze of my own cheerful hearth,
I'll waste the wintry hours in social mirth;
In summer pleas'd attend to harvest toils,
In autumn press the vineyard's purple spoils,
And oft to Delia in my bosom bear
Some kid, or lamb, that wants its mother's care:
With her I'll celebrate each gladsome day,
When swains their sportive rites to Bacchus pay:
With her new milk on Pales' altar pour,
And deck with ripen'd fruits Pomona's bower.
At night, how soothing would it be to hear,
Safe in her arms, the tempest howling near;
Or, while the wintry clouds their deluge pour,
Slumber, assisted by the beating shower!
Ah! how much happier, than the fool who braves,
In search of wealth, the black tempestuous waves!
While I, contented with my little store,
In tedious voyage seek no distant shore;
But, idly lolling on some shady seat,
Near cooling fountains shun the dog-star's heat:
For what reward so rich could Fortune give,
That I by absence should my Delia grieve?
Let great Messalla shine in martial toils,
And grace his palace with triumphal spoils;
Me Beauty holds, in strong though gentle chains,
Far from tumultuous war and dusty plains.
With thee, my love, to pass my tranquil days,
How would I slight Ambition's painful praise!
How would I joy with thee, my love, to yoke
The ox, and feed my solitary flock!
On thy soft breast might I but lean my head,
How downy should I think the woodland bed!
The wretch, who sleeps not by his fair-one's
Detests the gilded couch's useless pride,
Nor knows his weary weeping eyes to close,
Though murmuring rills invite him to repose.
Hard were his heart, who thee, my fair, could leave
For all the honours prosperous war can give;
Though through the vanquish'd East he spread his
And Parthian tyrants tremble at his name;
Though, bright in arms, while hosts around him bleed,
With martial pride he prest his foaming steed.
No pomps like these my humble vows require;
With thee I'll live, and in thy arms expire.
Thee may my closing eyes in death behold!
Thee may my faultering hand yet strive to hold!
Then, Delia, then, thy heart will melt in woe,
Then o'er my breathless clay thy tears will flow;
Thy tears will flow, for gentle is thy mind,
Nor dost thou think it weakness to be kind.
But, ah! fair mourner, I conjure thee, spare
Thy heaving breasts and loose dishevell'd hair:
Wound not thy form; lest on th' Elysian coast
Thy anguish should disturb my peaceful ghost.
But now nor death nor parting should employ
Our sprightly thoughts, or damp our bridal joy:
We'll live, my Delia; and from life remove
All care, all business, but delightful love.
Old age in vain those pleasures would retrieve
Which youth alone can taste, alone can give:
Then let us snatch the moment to be blest,
This hour is Love's-be Fortune's all the rest.
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