HERE lay poor Fletcher's half-eat scenes, and here
The frippery of crucified Molière ;
There hapless Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore,
Wish'd he had blotted for himself before.
The rest on outside merit but presume,
Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room;
Such with their shelves as due proportion hold,
Or their fond parents dress'd in red and gold;
Or where the pictures for the page atone,
And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own.
O THOU ! whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver!
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair,
Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;
From thy Boeotia though her power retires,
Mourn not, my Swift! at ought our realm requires,
Here pleased behold her mighty wings outspread
To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead.
From An Epistle to the Earl of Oxford,
prefixed to Parnell's poems. [1721
SUCH were the notes thy once loved poet sung,
Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
O, just beheld and lost! admired and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd!
Bless'd in each science! bless'd in every strain !
Dear to the Muse! to Harley dear—in vain !
Epitaph on Gay in Westminster Abbey.
OF manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit a man; simplicity a child :
With native humour tempering virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the age :
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted e'en among the great:
A safe companion and an easy friend,
Unblamed through life, lamented in thy end.
These are thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust:
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their pensive bosoms-" Here lies Gay."
To praise, yet still with due respect to praise,
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend,
What life, what vigour, must the lines require !
What music tune them! what affection fire!
O might thy genius in my bosom shine!
Thou should'st not fail of numbers worthy thine,
The brightest ancients might at once agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee.
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts to play the critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame
Whom Windsor forest sees a gliding stream;
On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd,
She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair;
Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before.
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds,
Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for
The new machines in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave phrenzy of the chymic fool;
But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart:
The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train
Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits
Inshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits,
And sings in measures, such as Virgil's muse
To place thee near him might be found to choose.
How might he tune the alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he,
While some old Damon o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!
Rapt with the thought my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of every tender gale,
Parent of flowerets, old Arcadia, hail!
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head;
Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,
Thy aspins quiver in a breathing breeze;
Smile all thy valleys in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with every sense of great delight.
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne;
In all the majesty of Greek retired,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;
His language failing, wrapt him round with night,
Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden ore,
When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, the mines were here!
Should some rich youth, if nature warm his heart,
And all his project stand inform'd with art,
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines detected, flame with gold again.
How vast, how copious are thy new designs!
How every music varies in thy lines!
Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the
When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease,
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela, sweetest o'er the rest :
The shades resound with song-O softly tread !
While a whole season warbles round my head.
This to my friend-and when a friend inspires,
My silent harp its master's hand requires,
Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound,
For fortune placed me in unfertile ground;
Far from the joys that with my soul agree,
From wit, from learning-far, O far from thee!
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf,
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet;
Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.
Yet here content can dwell, and learned ease,
A friend delight me, and an author please;
Even here I sing, while Pope supplies the theme,
Show my own love, though not increase his fame.
From On the Death of Dr. Swift. [1731
WHAT poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
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