 | Poems on several grave and important subjects (1719) |  |
To Mr. Joseph Mitchell,
On his POEMS Occasioned by the Death of his Brother and Friend.
The Muse that taught your better Muse to sing,
And soar advent'rous on a steady Wing,
Himself confesses on the Occasion proud,
To pay this Homage with th' inspired Croud,
To thee, young Friend, his Ornament and Praise,
Whom Art and Nature have combin'd to raise.
As prudent Parents oft their Love conceal,
To their dear Children whom they see excel,
Yet, with true Pleasure, hear their real Worth
By other Men impartially set forth;
So I the Beauties of your early Song
Have inly priz'd, but yet conceal'd it long:
No more I'll smother my transporting Flame,
But vouch my Love, and your Desert proclaim.
And soar advent'rous on a steady Wing,
Himself confesses on the Occasion proud,
To pay this Homage with th' inspired Croud,
To thee, young Friend, his Ornament and Praise,
Whom Art and Nature have combin'd to raise.
As prudent Parents oft their Love conceal,
To their dear Children whom they see excel,
Yet, with true Pleasure, hear their real Worth
By other Men impartially set forth;
So I the Beauties of your early Song
Have inly priz'd, but yet conceal'd it long:
But vouch my Love, and your Desert proclaim.
Since first you sung on Ratho's pleasing Plains,
The honest Passions of the simple Swains,
(A charming Toil, and worthy of a Boy,
His tender Muse, like Maro, to employ!)
Well have you try'd in more exalted Lays,
On higher Subjects to record your Praise.
How am I ravish'd, when I read the Verse,
In which Heav'ns sacred Matters you rehearse?
Despising mortal Criticks idle Rules,
You seem to rival the celestial Souls,
Who aid the Triumphs of immortal Joy,
With Hymns of Praises that can never cloy.
Unlike the Heathen Writers of the Age,
Religion is the Glory of your Page:
The Muses to their proper Ends you aim,
And shew from whence your Inspiration came.
The honest Passions of the simple Swains,
(A charming Toil, and worthy of a Boy,
His tender Muse, like Maro, to employ!)
Well have you try'd in more exalted Lays,
On higher Subjects to record your Praise.
How am I ravish'd, when I read the Verse,
In which Heav'ns sacred Matters you rehearse?
Despising mortal Criticks idle Rules,
You seem to rival the celestial Souls,
Who aid the Triumphs of immortal Joy,
With Hymns of Praises that can never cloy.
Unlike the Heathen Writers of the Age,
Religion is the Glory of your Page:
The Muses to their proper Ends you aim,
And shew from whence your Inspiration came.
If from more serious Labour you unbend
Your busy Thoughts to entertain your Friend,
Such Wit and Judgment in your Letters shine,
Such Ease and Strength are joyn'd in ev'ry Line,
That we, who know you best, can hardly tell,
(Tho' in each Way of Writing you do well,)
Where lies your Talent, wherein you excell.
Your busy Thoughts to entertain your Friend,
Such Wit and Judgment in your Letters shine,
Such Ease and Strength are joyn'd in ev'ry Line,
(Tho' in each Way of Writing you do well,)
Where lies your Talent, wherein you excell.
Yet were your Genius by my Judgment sway'd,
Your fam'd Translation should not be delay'd.
Too long great Cambray, English'd by his Foes,
Hath slept and suffer'd in disdainful Prose.
Already you (if Versions can revive,
And make the Spirit of an Author live,)
With good Success, advent'rous have begun—
We wait with Pain to see the Labour done,
Where Judgment ripen'd in each Line appears,
And all the Fire peculiar to your Years.
Your fam'd Translation should not be delay'd.
Too long great Cambray, English'd by his Foes,
Hath slept and suffer'd in disdainful Prose.
Already you (if Versions can revive,
And make the Spirit of an Author live,)
With good Success, advent'rous have begun—
We wait with Pain to see the Labour done,
Where Judgment ripen'd in each Line appears,
And all the Fire peculiar to your Years.
But ah! my Friend, too much I cannot blame
Your Negligence, and slow Essays for Fame:
Your Muse of late, afflicted as your Mind,
By losing both a Brother and a Friend;
Deep plung'd in Grief, all other Subjects scorn'd,
'Till first his Urn was gratefully adorn'd.
O happy Youth, possess'd of Bliss above,
And here on Earth preserv'd alive by Love!
Ne'er did I know two Brothers more endear'd!
Such Monuments unto a Friendship rear'd!
Yet be advis'd, nor vent your Sorrows more:
The blessed Shade forbids you to deplore.
A private Loss has shar'd your Muse too long;
Your Country now demands a higher Song.
Tho' true it is, we by your Sorrows gain,
And call that Pleasure, which to you is Pain:
For 'midst your Grief your Lays appear divine,
And heavenly Beauties thro' your Sadness shine.
Your growing Muse, in her dejected State,
Looks lovely still, and undisguis'dly great.
Just so the sparkling Rays of Godhead shone
Thro' mourning Dress, and made Calypso known.
Your Negligence, and slow Essays for Fame:
Your Muse of late, afflicted as your Mind,
By losing both a Brother and a Friend;
Deep plung'd in Grief, all other Subjects scorn'd,
'Till first his Urn was gratefully adorn'd.
O happy Youth, possess'd of Bliss above,
And here on Earth preserv'd alive by Love!
Such Monuments unto a Friendship rear'd!
Yet be advis'd, nor vent your Sorrows more:
The blessed Shade forbids you to deplore.
A private Loss has shar'd your Muse too long;
Your Country now demands a higher Song.
Tho' true it is, we by your Sorrows gain,
And call that Pleasure, which to you is Pain:
For 'midst your Grief your Lays appear divine,
And heavenly Beauties thro' your Sadness shine.
Your growing Muse, in her dejected State,
Looks lovely still, and undisguis'dly great.
Just so the sparkling Rays of Godhead shone
Thro' mourning Dress, and made Calypso known.
The Freedom I on this Occasion use
My modest Friend should generously excuse.
You know my Heart is, like your own, sincere;
Nor need I be to you a Platterer.
These Lines but half my Heart's Desires express;
You merit more, nor cou'd my Love say less.
My modest Friend should generously excuse.
You know my Heart is, like your own, sincere;
Nor need I be to you a Platterer.
These Lines but half my Heart's Desires express;
You merit more, nor cou'd my Love say less.
R. Boyd.
| Poems on several grave and important subjects (1719) | |