 | The Eleventh Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated |  |
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The ELEVENTH EPISTLE Of the First BOOK of HORACE Imitated.
To Samuel Ogle, Esq; Governor of Maryland.
A.
Say, curious Friend, who rome'st from Pole to Pole!
My near-allied in Blood, but join'd in Soul!
What, offers wealthy Lisbon to delight?
What, proud Madrid to fix thy travel'd Sight?
What Novelty from Sea-fenc'd Holland springs,
The neat-compacted State, averse to Kings?
What judge You, not of old, but modern Rome,
Of Virtue, now, the Temple, or the Tomb?
What, of Vienna, tost by adverse Gales?
What, of the boasted Grandeur of Versailles.
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Gain They, or lose, by near, or distant View?
Or seem They, royal Slaves to English Eyes?
Still think you, that Britannia bears the Prize?
That, ev'ry River is a Brook to Thames,
Whose Navy universal Homage claims?
That, where She shines, each lessen'd Light withdraws,
Whose Walls, are Liberties, whose Ramparts, Laws?
Or falls within his Wish some soft Retreat,
Some Austrian, Spanish, French, Sardinian Seat,
Mantua, or Modena; o'er whom the Sword
Impends, decisive of her future Lord?
Or gains Anapolis thy grateful Praise,
Anapolis, that opes her spacious Bays,
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Tir'd with the Lands, disgusted with the Seas?
B.
Know You Anapolis, or ask to know?—
Her fertile Wilds with rude Abundance flow.
Far more She owes to Nature than to Toil.
The Planter rough, but gen'rous as the Soil.
Desert of Men, to Arts or Letters bred,
Mechanic Hand, or scientific Head:
There seek You Converse? You might seek as soon
The Tunbridge of December, Bath of June.
Tho' much She wants of Culture and of Taste,
A Beauty un-improv'd! A splendid Waste!
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To spend my Days, or, as You think, to lose.
Here, safe on Shore, survey the rising Storm,
What Clouds the Heav'ns, what Winds the Seas deform;
Here, free from Passion, ev'ry Tumult end:
Here, if Forgot, Forgetting ev'ry Friend.
A.
Mir'd with the Journey, wetted with the Rain,
(The question'd Point more freely to explain)
Stops, at the Talbot-Sign, the Kentish Squire;
And warms, and dries Him at the Common Fire:
There, let Him dine; by our impartial Voice
Un-censur'd: From Convenience, not from Choice.
But ev'n mine Host would smile, should He begin,
To hire his Winter-Lodging at his Inn.
(The question'd Point more freely to explain)
Stops, at the Talbot-Sign, the Kentish Squire;
And warms, and dries Him at the Common Fire:
There, let Him dine; by our impartial Voice
Un-censur'd: From Convenience, not from Choice.
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To hire his Winter-Lodging at his Inn.
Seiz'd with Rheumatic Pain, I ask Advice.—
“Thrice bath You, (Baillie cries) and stove You thrice.”
The Hummums, with a Patient's Faith, I seek;
And thrice the Bath, and thrice the Stove bespeak;
The Case is touch'd. But what, when Ease is found,
Pursu'd I the same Course, the whole Year round?
Held, as Preservatives of Health complete,
The laxing Lymph, and rarifying Heat?
“Thrice bath You, (Baillie cries) and stove You thrice.”
The Hummums, with a Patient's Faith, I seek;
And thrice the Bath, and thrice the Stove bespeak;
The Case is touch'd. But what, when Ease is found,
Pursu'd I the same Course, the whole Year round?
Held, as Preservatives of Health complete,
The laxing Lymph, and rarifying Heat?
His proper Ship the Merchant-Sailor freights,
And bound for Turkey, sweeps the Midland Straits;
Suppose him ruffled by the Northern Blast,
Torn ev'ry Sail, and fractur'd ev'ry Mast:
He drives to Tunis, borne by Wind and Tide.—
What! shall He chuse at Tunis to reside?
At Tunis! vend his Vessel with her Stores,
And naturalize, and live among the Moors?
And bound for Turkey, sweeps the Midland Straits;
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Torn ev'ry Sail, and fractur'd ev'ry Mast:
He drives to Tunis, borne by Wind and Tide.—
What! shall He chuse at Tunis to reside?
At Tunis! vend his Vessel with her Stores,
And naturalize, and live among the Moors?
Forgive the Friend, who feels what He disputes.
With my Affection ill your Absence suits.
If fix'd Serenity secures your Rest;
If neither Hopes nor Fears your Peace molest:
What gains the Sage of Mind, of Body Sound,
By Change of Climate, or by Change of Ground?
Of either Aix, let Self-tormentors tell,
The Southern Breeze, and salutary Well.
Spaw's purer Spring, Montpelier's softer Air,
Fall neither in his Want, nor in his Care.
Is Naples prais'd? He knows not what is meant.
More can He be than Valid and Content?
To Him, all Superfluities appear
Strange, as the Modes of Dress that wrong the Year.
As should thin Lustring chuse some Country Maid
For Christmas, and for Autumn stiff Brocade;
Or wear some City Beau, for Queen or King,
French Silk in Winter, and Broad-cloth in Spring:
That, by the Fire in sultry August dine,
This, in extreme November ice his Wine.
Such is the Mind, misled by vain Desires,
When useless Things, She covets or admires.
With my Affection ill your Absence suits.
If fix'd Serenity secures your Rest;
If neither Hopes nor Fears your Peace molest:
What gains the Sage of Mind, of Body Sound,
By Change of Climate, or by Change of Ground?
Of either Aix, let Self-tormentors tell,
The Southern Breeze, and salutary Well.
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Fall neither in his Want, nor in his Care.
Is Naples prais'd? He knows not what is meant.
More can He be than Valid and Content?
To Him, all Superfluities appear
Strange, as the Modes of Dress that wrong the Year.
As should thin Lustring chuse some Country Maid
For Christmas, and for Autumn stiff Brocade;
Or wear some City Beau, for Queen or King,
French Silk in Winter, and Broad-cloth in Spring:
That, by the Fire in sultry August dine,
This, in extreme November ice his Wine.
Such is the Mind, misled by vain Desires,
When useless Things, She covets or admires.
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While Health, and Fortune, equaly benign,
Afford the Means, be Blest! The Choice is thine.
“Philosophy thy Soul from Passion frees.”
Then London like Anapolis may please.
Here, to the Stars, thy charming Province raise;
Here, absent, ev'ry sweet Plantation praise;
Call Maryland, (when fix'd no more to rome)
“An Earthly Paradise,” but call at Home.
Afford the Means, be Blest! The Choice is thine.
“Philosophy thy Soul from Passion frees.”
Then London like Anapolis may please.
Here, to the Stars, thy charming Province raise;
Here, absent, ev'ry sweet Plantation praise;
Call Maryland, (when fix'd no more to rome)
“An Earthly Paradise,” but call at Home.
Nor Thou, what smiling Fate bestows, withstand!
Accept her Bounty with a grateful Hand!
To taste the Sweets, that lie within thy Pow'r,
Defer not, for a Year, or for an Hour!
This is the prudent Way, to husband Time;
To equal ev'ry Soil, and ev'ry Clime;
To live, and call each well-spent Day your own:
Tost by what Wind, or on what Region thrown.
Accept her Bounty with a grateful Hand!
To taste the Sweets, that lie within thy Pow'r,
Defer not, for a Year, or for an Hour!
This is the prudent Way, to husband Time;
To equal ev'ry Soil, and ev'ry Clime;
To live, and call each well-spent Day your own:
Tost by what Wind, or on what Region thrown.
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When sinks the Soul beneath a Weight of Woes,
Produc'd by faithless Friends; the worst of Foes!
If, then, right Reason bids the Tumult cease;
Reason, the sole true Arbiter of Peace!
If no soft Air alleys the mental Pain,
No tow'ring Aspect that commands the Main;
If, when for Ease from Realm to Realm We fly,
Self is unchang'd, tho' chang'd both Earth and Sky;
What, are the vain Anxieties of Life,
But busy Follies? Scenes of idle Strife?
Produc'd by faithless Friends; the worst of Foes!
If, then, right Reason bids the Tumult cease;
Reason, the sole true Arbiter of Peace!
If no soft Air alleys the mental Pain,
No tow'ring Aspect that commands the Main;
If, when for Ease from Realm to Realm We fly,
Self is unchang'd, tho' chang'd both Earth and Sky;
What, are the vain Anxieties of Life,
But busy Follies? Scenes of idle Strife?
Yet childish Man, whose airy Project fails,
Now animates his Steeds, now spreads his Sails;
In Search of Pleasure, that outstrips the Wind!
In Flight from Care, that follows close behind!
Where lies conceal'd the Region of the Blest?—
He knows not! Yet, it lies within his Breast.
Spontaneous there, in that rich Garden, grows
Whate'er, or Man requires, or God bestows;
There lodge of perfect Bliss the Heav'nly Seeds;
Guard but the rising Plant from noxious Weeds!
From Admiration! Hope! Ambition! Fear!
Here, seek we Happiness? We find it Here;
This, ev'n in cold Iërne, We may find:
Keep but an equal Temperature of Mind.
Now animates his Steeds, now spreads his Sails;
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In Flight from Care, that follows close behind!
Where lies conceal'd the Region of the Blest?—
He knows not! Yet, it lies within his Breast.
Spontaneous there, in that rich Garden, grows
Whate'er, or Man requires, or God bestows;
There lodge of perfect Bliss the Heav'nly Seeds;
Guard but the rising Plant from noxious Weeds!
From Admiration! Hope! Ambition! Fear!
Here, seek we Happiness? We find it Here;
This, ev'n in cold Iërne, We may find:
Keep but an equal Temperature of Mind.
FINIS.
| The Eleventh Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated | |