University of Virginia Library

The greatest Orator, and Statesman said

M. T. Cic.

(May be the greatest ever Nature made,
Where grace design'd no aid)
That if a heave'nly Guest confin'd below,
Might none o'th' shining wonders show;
The fretting secret would corrode his mind,
And, Viper-like, a passage find:
So some o'th' Wonders that in Belvoir are,
And Belvoir' self I must declare!
Tho my Description has not equal grace,
Unworthy of the Place;
It may perform its trust,
And serve to keep away Time's dust,
By closing it within this Paper-case.

Such draughts of Poetry let none reject;
Fancy is no vain Architect;
Building cannot make it poor;
Of shining Quarrys it has store.
Apollo makes, and then refines
Its unexhausted golden Mines,
Untill the Treasury runs o're.
Kings in mighty actions skill'd;
And their Exchequers fill'd,
Then fit they are
Vast stately Pyles to rear!
Yet Poets can more lasting Structures build.

Armida's Castle will make good the boast,
Founded on poor Tasso's cost.
Our rambling Braves advance
The empty gayeties of France:
And yet the Louvre is not equal seen,
To th' Pallace of our Fairy Queen
Spain's vast Escurial is o're-whelm'd with shame,
When we Sol's glorious Pallace name,
Whose beauties yet are in their prime,
Tho built by Ovid in Augustus time!
A Paper-building! but his Ink well temper'd all the Lime.
My Lord, I'm none of those,
Who are so vain to think
That Verse with all its Rhyming clink
Hides folly more than Prose.
Embroider'd Coats may make one brave;
But neither hide a Fool or Knave,
For gawdy trappings did expose
Esop's proud Ass born to contempt and blows.
And yet we must confess
Dull prose or Rustick dress
Conceals not ignorance nor makes it less.
Witness our worser times;
Paul's oratory suffer'd loss,
By many an idle Gloss:
As David's Poetry by Hopkin's Rhymes.
It matters not how we our thoughts reherse,
Whether in Prose or Verse.
So we transcribe but right and fair,
What Copies of our Minds declare.
Honest Intents
Make Love and Truth their choicest Ornaments.

In these last days
The Soul of Wit decays!
Weaker its Efforts are seen;
As is observed of the Poets Bayes;
They are less fruitful and less green.
'Tis the World's Dotage; and we grow
Less good, less healthy, and less witty too.
If Fate could any thing contrive
To cross this Rule that is too true;
This Theme would Poetry revive,
And make my Fancy brisk, and strong, and new.
Such as great Virgil, Lucan, Horace writ,
(Those Triumvirs of Wit!)
That triumph'd over Ignorance;
And by their Choice, not Chance,
An Empire rais'd; to which all Poets bow,
From their days, ev'n till now.
And never Rebel did against their Laws advance.

Their strengths of Thought were great;
Aided by cœlestial heat.
Their Brains were warm'd with praise,
Mecæna's Favours, and fresh Wreaths of Bayes.
Their Heads were heated Stills;
And Spirits dropt from Noses of their Quills.
But in these cooler days,
(And Winter Evenings, ah! are cold!)
The frosty humour of the Age benums
Our Brains, hence nothing flows but Rhewms;
Thin sickly Products of neglected Wit.
For now rewards of Gold
Are hard to get,
As that rare Stone that Chymists say produces it.
Who can avoid Despair and Rage,
To see
Cæsar, Mecænas, Poetry,
Confined to one Age?
The two choice Blessings from above,
Are Wit and Love.
Love gains all Empire, makes the World submit;
Wit is chief minister to govern it.
Yet both these mighty things decay,
And, if neglected, will not stay:
They bring all Blessings from above.
This, this, methinks, should great and rich men move.
Without Reward, farewel both Wit and Love.

But stay!
Before mine go away,
I'll give one struggle more.
If I expire,
My Theme can, like strong Cordials, restore
My wasting Wit,
And cherish it;
As Spirits numb'd recruit with fire.
Thus Priests when they did Oracles record;
Those Pow'rs inspir'd, which they themselves ador'd.