ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD, AND EARL MORTIMER,
.SENT 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.
UCH were the notes thy once-lov'd Poet fung,
Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh juft beheld, and loft! admir'd, and mourn'd!
With fofteft manners, gentleft arts adorn'd!
Bleft in each science, bleft in every ftrain!
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, defpis'd the farce of state,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleas'd to 'scape from Flattery to Wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,
Who, careless now of Intereft, 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.
And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine:
A Soul Supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, and Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Power, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.
In vain to Deferts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade:
'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Intereft calls off all her fneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Ev'n now, the fhades thy Evening-walk with bays 35 (No hireling the, no prostitute to praise);
Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm Sun-fet of thy various Day,
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can fee,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.
SECRETARY OF STATE IN THE YEAR 1720.
Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,
Which nothing seeks to fhew, or needs to hide,
Which nor to Guilt, nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boafts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts fevere upon a rising Lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert; and being this before,
Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lose a Foe these Virtues raife;
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 pursue ;
If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of You.
TO MR. JERVAS,
With Mr. DRYDEN'S Tranflation of FRESNOT'S Art of Painting.
THIS Epiftle, and the two following, were written fome years before the reft, and originally printed in 1717.
HIS Verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mafs,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these inftructive leaves, in which confpire
Frefnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and fo join'd our name;
Like them to fhine through long fucceeding age,
So juft thy skill, 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 strength and light.
How oft in pleafing tasks 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 something to commend!
What flattering scenes our wandering 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 inspiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable shade:
While Fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome anew.
Here thy well-ftudied marbles fix our eye;
A fading Frefco here demands a figh:
Each heavenly 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 appears
This small, well-polish'd Gem, the work of years! 40
Yet ftill how faint by precept is express'd
The living image in the painter's breast!
Thence endless streams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, fupplies
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.
Mufe! at that Name thy facred forrows fhed,
Those tears eternal that embalm the dead;
Call round her Tomb each object of defire,
Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire:
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