None e'er disgust the judging mind,
When vary'd well, or well combin'd.

This Lowther's noble Planter knew, . And kept it in his constant view. So sweetly wild his woods are strown, Nature mistakes them for her own, Yet all to proper soil and site So suited, doubly they delight. While tender plants in vales repose, Where the mild zephyr only blows, Embattled firs bleak hills adorn, Under whose safeguard smiles the corn. Who builds or plants, this rule should know, From truth and use all beauties flow.

EPISTLE XV.

TO A

SWISS OFFICER,

From his

FRIEND AT ROME.

BY JOSEPH SPENCE, M. A.

FROM horrid mountains ever hid in snow,
And barren lands, and dreary plains below;
To you, dear Sir, my best regards I send,
The weakest reasoner, as the truest friend,
Your arguments, that vainly strive to please,
Your arts, your country, and your palaces:
What signs of Roman grandeur still remain
Much you have said; and much have said in vain.
Fine pageants these for slaves, to please the eye;
And put the neatest dress on misery!

Bred up to slav'ry and dissembled pain, Unhappy man! you trifle with your chain: But should your friend with your desires comply, And sell himself to Rome and slav'ry;

Epist. XV.

EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c.

161

He could not wear his trammels with that art,
Or hide the noble anguish of his heart :
You'd soon repent the livery that you gave;
For, trust me, I should make an aukward slave.

Falsely you blame our barren rocks and plains, Happy in freedom and laborious swains: Our peasants chearful to the field repair, And can enjoy the labors of the year;

Whilst yours, beneath some tree, with mournful

eyes,

Sees for his haughty lord his harvest rise:
Then silent sighs; but stops his slavish breath :
He silent sighs: for should he speak, 'tis death.
Hence from our field the lazy grain we call,
Too much for want, for luxury too small :
Whilst all Campania's rich inviting soil
Scarceknows the ploughshare, or the reaper's toil.

In arms we breed our youth. To dart from far, And aim aright the thunder of the war: To whirl the faulchion, and direct the blow; To ward the stroke, or bear upon the foe. Early in hardships through the woods they fly, Nor feel the piercing frost, or wintry sky; Some prowling wolf or foamy boar to meet, And stretch the panting savage at their feet: Inur'd by this, they seek a nobler war, And shew an honest pride in every scar; With joy the danger and the blood partake,

Whilst every wound is for their country's sake.
But you, soft warriors, forc'd into the field,
Or faintly strike, or impotently yield;
For well this universal truth you know,
Who fights for tyrants is his country's foe.

1 envy not your arts, the Roman schools, Improv'd, perhaps, but to inslave your souls. May you to stone, or nerves or beauty give, And teach the soft'ning marble how to live; May you the passions in your colors trace, And work up every piece with every grace; In airs and attitudes be wond'rous wise, And know the arts to please or to surprize ; In music's softest sound consume the day, Sounds that would melt the warrior's soul away t Vain efforts these, an honest fame to raise; Your painters, and your eunuchs be your praise: Grant us more real goods, ye heav'nly Pow'rs! Virtue and arms, and liberty be ours. Weak are your offers to the free and brave; No bribe can purchase me to be a slave. Hear me, ye rocks, ye mountains, and ye plains, The happy bounds of our Helvetian swains! In thee, my Country, will I fix my seat;

Nor envy the poor wretch, that wou'd be great c My life and arms I dedicate to Thee;

For, know, it is my int'rest to be free.

NOTES

ON

EPISTLES

CRITICAL AND DIDACTIC.

EPISTLE I.

Page 1. THE Author of this Epistle was descended from the Parnells who had been long seated at Congleton in Cheshire, but on the Restoration withdrew to Ireland, in consequence of their adherence to the Commonwealth party. In the capital of that kingdom our Poet was born in 1676, and, having been instructed in the classics by Dr. Jones, was admitted into Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of thirteen. In July 1700, he took his master's degree and orders; and about four years after was collated by the Bishop of Clogher, to that archdeaconry. Prior, however, to this period, he marrried a Miss Anne Minchin, who was remarkable both for beauty and merit. By her, he had two sons and a daughter. The latter survived him, but both the former died young. The loss of his wife, preyed greatly on his spirits and considerably hastened his own dissolution. Dying on his way to Ireland, at Chester, he was there buried in