The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve containing Poems upon Several Occasions |
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EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable
CHARLES Lord HALIFAX, &c. |
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 | The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve |  |
EPISTLE TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES Lord HALIFAX, &c.
To You, my Lord, my Muse her Tribute pays
Of various Verse, in various rude Essays;
To You, she first Address'd her early Voice,
By Inclination led, and fix'd by Choice;
To You, on whose Indulgence she depends,
Her few collected Lays, she now, Commends.
Of various Verse, in various rude Essays;
To You, she first Address'd her early Voice,
By Inclination led, and fix'd by Choice;
Her few collected Lays, she now, Commends.
By no one Measure bound, her Numbers range,
And unresolv'd in Choice, delight in Change;
Her Songs to no distinguish'd Fame aspire,
For, now, she tries the Reed, anon, attempts the Lyre;
In high Parnassus she no Birthright claims,
Nor drinks deep Draughts of Heliconian Streams;
Yet near the sacred Mount she loves to rove,
Visits the Springs, and hovers round the Grove.
She knows what Dangers wait too bold a Flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian Height:
Yet, she admires the Wing that safely soars,
At Distance follows, and its Track adores.
She knows what Room, what Force, the Swan requires,
Whose towring Head above the Clouds aspires,
And knows as well, it is Your Lowest Praise,
Such Heights to reach with equal Strength and Ease.
And unresolv'd in Choice, delight in Change;
Her Songs to no distinguish'd Fame aspire,
For, now, she tries the Reed, anon, attempts the Lyre;
In high Parnassus she no Birthright claims,
Nor drinks deep Draughts of Heliconian Streams;
Yet near the sacred Mount she loves to rove,
Visits the Springs, and hovers round the Grove.
She knows what Dangers wait too bold a Flight,
And fears to fall from an Icarian Height:
Yet, she admires the Wing that safely soars,
At Distance follows, and its Track adores.
She knows what Room, what Force, the Swan requires,
Whose towring Head above the Clouds aspires,
And knows as well, it is Your Lowest Praise,
Such Heights to reach with equal Strength and Ease.
O had Your Genius been to Leisure born,
And not more bound to Aid us, than Adorn!
Albion in Verse with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a Fame, which, there, sev'n States divide.
But such, ev'n such Renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the Patriot in the Poet lost.
A true Poetick State we had deplor'd,
Had not Your Ministry our Coin restor'd.
And not more bound to Aid us, than Adorn!
Albion in Verse with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a Fame, which, there, sev'n States divide.
But such, ev'n such Renown, too dear had cost,
Had we the Patriot in the Poet lost.
A true Poetick State we had deplor'd,
Had not Your Ministry our Coin restor'd.
But still, my Lord, tho' Your Exalted Name
Stands foremost in the fairest List of Fame,
Tho' Your Ambition ends in Publick Good,
(A Virtue lineal to Your House and Blood:)
Yet think not meanly of Your other Praise,
Nor slight the Trophies which the Muses raise.
How oft, a Patriot's best laid Schemes we find
By Party cross'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he succeed he undergoes this Lot,
The Good receiv'd, the Giver is forgot.
But Honours which from Verse their Source derive,
Shall both surmount Detraction, and survive:
And Poets have unquestion'd Right, to claim
If not the Greatest, the most Lasting Name.
Stands foremost in the fairest List of Fame,
Tho' Your Ambition ends in Publick Good,
(A Virtue lineal to Your House and Blood:)
Yet think not meanly of Your other Praise,
Nor slight the Trophies which the Muses raise.
How oft, a Patriot's best laid Schemes we find
By Party cross'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he succeed he undergoes this Lot,
The Good receiv'd, the Giver is forgot.
Shall both surmount Detraction, and survive:
And Poets have unquestion'd Right, to claim
If not the Greatest, the most Lasting Name.
W. Congreve.
| The Third Volume of the Works of Mr. William Congreve | |