 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
318
A POETICAL DREAM,
Address'd to the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair.
Late, wand'ring lonely, pensive, and distrest,
By winding Thames, I laid me down to Rest:
But mimick Fancy kept awake my Grief,
'Till Stair's lov'd Image rose to my Relief.
By winding Thames, I laid me down to Rest:
But mimick Fancy kept awake my Grief,
'Till Stair's lov'd Image rose to my Relief.
Methought, in mournful, melancholy, Strain,
As thus my Muse express'd my inward Pain,
The God of Wit, presented fair in View,
Thus sooth'd my Soul, and pointed me to You.
Vouchsafe, my Lord, with Candour to regard
The Scene betwixt Apollo and your Bard.
As thus my Muse express'd my inward Pain,
The God of Wit, presented fair in View,
Thus sooth'd my Soul, and pointed me to You.
319
The Scene betwixt Apollo and your Bard.
First I, complaining—“O my luckless Fate!
“Why am I, Phoebus, doom'd to such a State?
“Why is your Votary, why your faithful Son
“Neglected, scorn'd, deluded, and undone?
“Was it for This I gave my self betimes
“To classick Studies, and to Syren Rhimes?
“For This, did I devote my Youth to Wit?
“For This, my Hopes of Kirk-Preferment quit?
“Have I, perfidious to the sacred Nine,
“Profan'd their Temples and their Fire divine?
“Have I, in Verse, a Poetaster prov'd?
“Deserve I not, alas! to be belov'd?
“Hard Fate! that Fidlers and Buffoons find Place,
“When Bards inspir'd implore, in vain, for Grace!
“Unequal Fortune! bounteous to impart
“Her Gifts to Fools, and starve the Sons of Art!
“Why am I, Phoebus, doom'd to such a State?
“Why is your Votary, why your faithful Son
“Neglected, scorn'd, deluded, and undone?
“Was it for This I gave my self betimes
“To classick Studies, and to Syren Rhimes?
“For This, did I devote my Youth to Wit?
“For This, my Hopes of Kirk-Preferment quit?
“Have I, perfidious to the sacred Nine,
“Profan'd their Temples and their Fire divine?
“Have I, in Verse, a Poetaster prov'd?
“Deserve I not, alas! to be belov'd?
“Hard Fate! that Fidlers and Buffoons find Place,
“When Bards inspir'd implore, in vain, for Grace!
320
“Her Gifts to Fools, and starve the Sons of Art!
Apollo, smiling, gently made Reply—
“Thy Plaints, dear Youth, have often reach'd our Sky.
“But check Despair—Thy various Sufferings past,
“The Fates decree deserv'd Success, at last.
“Fortune and Merit, grown familiar Friends,
“Will sure, tho' slowly, make a rich Amends.
“Thy Plaints, dear Youth, have often reach'd our Sky.
“But check Despair—Thy various Sufferings past,
“The Fates decree deserv'd Success, at last.
“Fortune and Merit, grown familiar Friends,
“Will sure, tho' slowly, make a rich Amends.
Then I rejoin'd—“How oft have I believ'd,
“And been, by flatt'ring Promises, deceiv'd;
“How vain my Hopes? How impotent my Pray'rs?
“How fleet my Joys? How constant prove my Cares?
“Alas! I fear, your Godhead mocks my Case,
“Or hath not Pow'r to lift me to a Place.
“Parnassus' Soil is barren, and the Streams
“Of Helicon appear delusive Dreams.
“Too peevish grown—reply'd the God of Verse—
“Thou lov'st, I find, to hear thy self rehearse.
“Indulge thy Spleen—what Profit will it bring?
“Can Railing, or Rebellion move a King?
“Rather, like Horace, humorously gay,
“Rise to Preferment in a pleasant Way.
“Caress the Great, and gain upon their Grace,
“Laugh at their Faults, and look them in the Face.
“Or, like a Changeling, ape the veering Wind,
“Unsing thy Songs, and bubble all Mankind.
“Be bold in Lies, no supple Flattery spare,
“And Fortune's Boons may sooner fall thy Share.
“And been, by flatt'ring Promises, deceiv'd;
“How vain my Hopes? How impotent my Pray'rs?
“How fleet my Joys? How constant prove my Cares?
“Alas! I fear, your Godhead mocks my Case,
“Or hath not Pow'r to lift me to a Place.
“Parnassus' Soil is barren, and the Streams
“Of Helicon appear delusive Dreams.
321
“Thou lov'st, I find, to hear thy self rehearse.
“Indulge thy Spleen—what Profit will it bring?
“Can Railing, or Rebellion move a King?
“Rather, like Horace, humorously gay,
“Rise to Preferment in a pleasant Way.
“Caress the Great, and gain upon their Grace,
“Laugh at their Faults, and look them in the Face.
“Or, like a Changeling, ape the veering Wind,
“Unsing thy Songs, and bubble all Mankind.
“Be bold in Lies, no supple Flattery spare,
“And Fortune's Boons may sooner fall thy Share.
“Perish her Boons—I angrily reply'd—
“Perish my Muse, ere venal Means be try'd.
“Let other Poets prostitute their Lays;
“On vile Foundations, I'll not build my Praise.
“Ne'er will I sing at Virtue's sad Expence,
“Nor make Wit war with Honesty and Sense.
“Be Honour always my peculiar Guard.
“Who forfeits Honour, merits no Reward.
“Perish my Muse, ere venal Means be try'd.
“Let other Poets prostitute their Lays;
“On vile Foundations, I'll not build my Praise.
322
“Nor make Wit war with Honesty and Sense.
“Be Honour always my peculiar Guard.
“Who forfeits Honour, merits no Reward.
“Too stoically nice, Apollo said—
“It seems, thou scorn'st to make my Art thy Trade!
“My Trade!—I answer'd—Yields it any Gain?
“Does it enrich? Or can it Life sustain?
“Spencer it starv'd! nor far'd great Milton well!
“Johnson it sowr'd! and Butler's Case was Hell!
“Were Dryden, Otway, Lee, and Oldham blest?
“Were Row, and Smith, and Phillips, e'er at Rest?
“Say, did your Art alone, make Prior great?
“From it, deriv'd sweet Addison his State?
“By it, was Congreve sav'd from Poet's Fate?
“In you, did Stepney his Advancement find?
“Had Pope no Patrimony, but his Mind?
“Genius, without a pow'rful Friend, might die!
“'Tis lucky Chance that lifts a Mortal high.
“It seems, thou scorn'st to make my Art thy Trade!
“My Trade!—I answer'd—Yields it any Gain?
“Does it enrich? Or can it Life sustain?
“Spencer it starv'd! nor far'd great Milton well!
“Johnson it sowr'd! and Butler's Case was Hell!
“Were Dryden, Otway, Lee, and Oldham blest?
“Were Row, and Smith, and Phillips, e'er at Rest?
“Say, did your Art alone, make Prior great?
“From it, deriv'd sweet Addison his State?
“By it, was Congreve sav'd from Poet's Fate?
“In you, did Stepney his Advancement find?
“Had Pope no Patrimony, but his Mind?
323
“'Tis lucky Chance that lifts a Mortal high.
“Severe in Virtue! still I am thy Friend,
“And now—said Phoebus—my Advice attend;
“So shalt thou Honour, to thy Death maintain,
“Nor rob the World of thy Poetick Vein.
“Look out a Patron, worthy all thy Praise;
“One, who can relish, and reward thy Lays;
“Who human-Kind, as well as Books, has read;
“A generous Heart, and a judicious Head;
“Who knows thy Excellence, and will forgive
“Small Faults, for Beauties, that deserve to live.
“Be sure, the Man by innate Worth be great,
“Nor less distinguish'd by his Deeds, than State.
“And now—said Phoebus—my Advice attend;
“So shalt thou Honour, to thy Death maintain,
“Nor rob the World of thy Poetick Vein.
“Look out a Patron, worthy all thy Praise;
“One, who can relish, and reward thy Lays;
“Who human-Kind, as well as Books, has read;
“A generous Heart, and a judicious Head;
“Who knows thy Excellence, and will forgive
“Small Faults, for Beauties, that deserve to live.
“Be sure, the Man by innate Worth be great,
“Nor less distinguish'd by his Deeds, than State.
One, who his King and Country long has serv'd;
“Amid Temptations, ne'er from Honour swerv'd;
“And who so far transcends your highest Strain,
“That all Essays, to flatter him, were vain.
“Amid Temptations, ne'er from Honour swerv'd;
324
“That all Essays, to flatter him, were vain.
“Alas!—said I—Intent on publick Good,
“Stair will not heed me in the humble Crowd.
“Courage—quoth Phoebus—He deserves thy Trust,
“If what thou seek'st be moderate and just.
“In Him, thou'lt find a Patron to thy Mind,
“Great, without Pride! without dissembling, Kind!
“No low-designing, fickle, treacherous, Lord!
“But mindful of his Friend, and faithful to his Word!
“Attempt his Favour, for his Int'rest sue,
“They're never grudg'd, whose Merit makes them due.
“He'll smile Distinction on thy honest Lays,
“Help thee to Place, and eternize thy Praise.
“Stair will not heed me in the humble Crowd.
“Courage—quoth Phoebus—He deserves thy Trust,
“If what thou seek'st be moderate and just.
“In Him, thou'lt find a Patron to thy Mind,
“Great, without Pride! without dissembling, Kind!
“No low-designing, fickle, treacherous, Lord!
“But mindful of his Friend, and faithful to his Word!
“Attempt his Favour, for his Int'rest sue,
“They're never grudg'd, whose Merit makes them due.
“He'll smile Distinction on thy honest Lays,
“Help thee to Place, and eternize thy Praise.
Raptur'd, I wak'd, and dwelt upon my Dream,
And from that Hour, your Lordship was my Theme
To You, my Service and my Pray'rs belong,
You are the Favourite Hero of my Song.
O may you make your Mitchell's Case your Care!
And Heav'n's selectest Blessings crown the generous Stair!
And from that Hour, your Lordship was my Theme
325
You are the Favourite Hero of my Song.
O may you make your Mitchell's Case your Care!
And Heav'n's selectest Blessings crown the generous Stair!
| Poems on Several Occasions | |