The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
 |
|
An EPISTLE to His Grace the
Duke of CHANDOS.
|
|
|
 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
73
An EPISTLE to His Grace the Duke of CHANDOS.
While over Arts unrival'd you preside,
And to renown the rising Genius guide;
While merit from obscurity you raise,
And call forth modest virtue into praise;
Vouchsafe, my Lord, this suppliant verse to read,
And aid the Muses in their time of need:
No brow with sacred ivy now is crown'd;
No Amaryllis do the woods resound;
The Hero, now the harp in silence lies,
Lives scarcely known, and undistinguish'd dies.
And to renown the rising Genius guide;
While merit from obscurity you raise,
And call forth modest virtue into praise;
Vouchsafe, my Lord, this suppliant verse to read,
And aid the Muses in their time of need:
No brow with sacred ivy now is crown'd;
No Amaryllis do the woods resound;
The Hero, now the harp in silence lies,
Lives scarcely known, and undistinguish'd dies.
Then, Chandos, take the Muses to thy care;
Their ruin'd temples, oh, do Thou repair;
Their ancient honours let thy power restore,
And bid them mourn their Halifax no more.
A race of happy years does Heaven ordain,
And gives th' assurance of a peaceful reign;
If you vouchsafe to lend the timely aid,
Nor Greece nor Rome shall Britain's sons upbraid;
The sunny climes, that boast a kindlier soil,
With hills of wine enrich'd, and groves of oil,
To us in Arts shall yield, to us in Song,
And distant nations prize the British tongue.
The growth of Learning, like the growth of trees,
Thrives unobserv'd, and springs by slow degrees;
Like the fam'd English oak, her head she rears,
And gains perfection through a length of years;
The first essays in Verse are rudely writ,
The numbers rough, and unchastiz'd the wit:
Thus, Brydges, in thy great forefathers' times,
Harsh was our language, and untun'd our rhimes;
Great Spenser first, in blest Eliza's days,
Smooth'd our old metre, and refin'd our lays;
Next manly Milton, Prince of Poets, came,
And to our numbers added Homer's flame;
Since when, in verse few wonders have been wrought,
And our smooth cadence flows devoid of thought.
Their ruin'd temples, oh, do Thou repair;
Their ancient honours let thy power restore,
And bid them mourn their Halifax no more.
A race of happy years does Heaven ordain,
And gives th' assurance of a peaceful reign;
If you vouchsafe to lend the timely aid,
Nor Greece nor Rome shall Britain's sons upbraid;
The sunny climes, that boast a kindlier soil,
With hills of wine enrich'd, and groves of oil,
To us in Arts shall yield, to us in Song,
And distant nations prize the British tongue.
The growth of Learning, like the growth of trees,
Thrives unobserv'd, and springs by slow degrees;
74
And gains perfection through a length of years;
The first essays in Verse are rudely writ,
The numbers rough, and unchastiz'd the wit:
Thus, Brydges, in thy great forefathers' times,
Harsh was our language, and untun'd our rhimes;
Great Spenser first, in blest Eliza's days,
Smooth'd our old metre, and refin'd our lays;
Next manly Milton, Prince of Poets, came,
And to our numbers added Homer's flame;
Since when, in verse few wonders have been wrought,
And our smooth cadence flows devoid of thought.
No more neglected shall the Lyre remain;
Thou, Chandos, shalt improve its heavenly strain:
Thy smiles already in the dawn I see,
And England many Pollios boasts in thee;
To every art thy generous cares extend,
But chiefly shalt thou be the Poet's friend.
Th' approaching times my raptur'd thought engage:
I see arise a new Augustan age:
Here, stretch'd at ease, beneath the beechen boughs,
The Sylvan Poet sings his faithful vows;
Others, retiring from the vulgar throng,
At leisure meditate an Epic Song;
Or chuse the Worthies of a former age,
With all their pomp of grief to fill the stage;
While, here, Historians Brunswick's praise sustain,
Record his deeds, and lengthen out his reign.
Thou, Chandos, shalt improve its heavenly strain:
Thy smiles already in the dawn I see,
And England many Pollios boasts in thee;
To every art thy generous cares extend,
But chiefly shalt thou be the Poet's friend.
Th' approaching times my raptur'd thought engage:
I see arise a new Augustan age:
Here, stretch'd at ease, beneath the beechen boughs,
The Sylvan Poet sings his faithful vows;
Others, retiring from the vulgar throng,
At leisure meditate an Epic Song;
Or chuse the Worthies of a former age,
With all their pomp of grief to fill the stage;
While, here, Historians Brunswick's praise sustain,
Record his deeds, and lengthen out his reign.
In different ages different countries view,
And through its various periods time pursue;
In every age, which generous spirits bore,
The Muse was cherish'd, and had strength to soar;
Disturb'd by civil tumult, she withdrew
From cities far, and lay conceal'd from view:
So the bright passion-flower, in sunshine days,
Its vary'd colours to the light displays;
But, when the blackening sky pours down a storm,
Close-folds its leaves, and hides its radiant form;
Nor can the careful florist then behold
Its purple lustre, and its beams of gold,
And through its various periods time pursue;
In every age, which generous spirits bore,
The Muse was cherish'd, and had strength to soar;
Disturb'd by civil tumult, she withdrew
From cities far, and lay conceal'd from view:
So the bright passion-flower, in sunshine days,
Its vary'd colours to the light displays;
But, when the blackening sky pours down a storm,
Close-folds its leaves, and hides its radiant form;
75
Its purple lustre, and its beams of gold,
Without renown shall be the Patriot's toils;
Th' exploits of Beauty, and the Victor's spoils,
Without their praise; except a deathless song
Their glories to a future date prolong:
Not Helen only, fatal in her charms,
Drew Gods and Heroes to the strife of arms;
Distracting Beauties earlier ages bore,
And Love embroil'd whole empires long before.
Nor did the Grecian Teucer only know
To lance the spear, and bend the Cretan bow;
And many warriors many trophies won,
Ere yet Achilles conquer'd Priam's son:
But, wanting Poets, all, one fate they share,
Alike forgot, the valiant and the fair.
Th' exploits of Beauty, and the Victor's spoils,
Without their praise; except a deathless song
Their glories to a future date prolong:
Not Helen only, fatal in her charms,
Drew Gods and Heroes to the strife of arms;
Distracting Beauties earlier ages bore,
And Love embroil'd whole empires long before.
Nor did the Grecian Teucer only know
To lance the spear, and bend the Cretan bow;
And many warriors many trophies won,
Ere yet Achilles conquer'd Priam's son:
But, wanting Poets, all, one fate they share,
Alike forgot, the valiant and the fair.
With ancient Worthies, Chandos, shalt thou live
In verse, if I a living verse can give:
To thee, betimes, I consecrate my Muse,
For thee the fairest laurels do I chuse;
Employ my thoughts to grace thy favourite name,
And strive thy bounty to repay with fame.
In verse, if I a living verse can give:
To thee, betimes, I consecrate my Muse,
For thee the fairest laurels do I chuse;
Employ my thoughts to grace thy favourite name,
And strive thy bounty to repay with fame.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |