The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham.
But that 'tis dangerous for Man to be
Too busie with immutable Decree,
I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel Fate
That let such Sweetness have so short a Date!
The Flow'rs, with which the Meads are drest so Gay,
And are to fade so quickly—live a Day;
Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch't away!
Cropt from the Stalk with all thy Verdure on!
Yet not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,
And made at once all future Times thy Own.
Too busie with immutable Decree,
I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel Fate
That let such Sweetness have so short a Date!
The Flow'rs, with which the Meads are drest so Gay,
And are to fade so quickly—live a Day;
Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch't away!
Cropt from the Stalk with all thy Verdure on!
Yet not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,
And made at once all future Times thy Own.
The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine,
Were not so Charming, not so Sweet as thine:
They quickly Perish; yours was still the same,
A Lambent, but an everlasting Flame,
Which something so resistless did impart,
It never pass'd the Ear but reach'd the Heart:
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get Esteem,
And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme,
Nor can be Witty but when God's the Theme:
Mistaken Men! (but such thou did'st despise)
That must be Wicked to be counted Wise.
Thy Converse from this reigning Vice was free,
And yet 'twas, truly, all that Wit cou'd be:
None had it but, ev'n with a Tear does own,
The Soul of dear Society is gone!
Were not so Charming, not so Sweet as thine:
They quickly Perish; yours was still the same,
A Lambent, but an everlasting Flame,
Which something so resistless did impart,
It never pass'd the Ear but reach'd the Heart:
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get Esteem,
And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme,
Nor can be Witty but when God's the Theme:
Mistaken Men! (but such thou did'st despise)
That must be Wicked to be counted Wise.
219
And yet 'twas, truly, all that Wit cou'd be:
None had it but, ev'n with a Tear does own,
The Soul of dear Society is gone!
But while we thus thy Native Sweetness Sing,
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting.
Thy Satyr spar'd no Grievances, or Crimes,
Satyr, the best Reformer of the Times:
While different Sects eternally contest,
And each will have his own Perswasion best,
Then consequentially Damns all the rest,
Their Love to gain, not Godliness is shown;
Heav'ns Work is left undone to do their own.
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting.
Thy Satyr spar'd no Grievances, or Crimes,
Satyr, the best Reformer of the Times:
While different Sects eternally contest,
And each will have his own Perswasion best,
Then consequentially Damns all the rest,
Their Love to gain, not Godliness is shown;
Heav'ns Work is left undone to do their own.
How vain are those that wou'd obscure thy Fame
By giving out thy Verse was rough and lame?
They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move,
And writ so pliant, nicely, soft and smooth,
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love.
But who of Beaus, and Knaves and Fools wou'd Sing,
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring;
For 'tis no Satyr if it has no Sting.
In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be,
Must think and write like Juvenal and Thee.
By giving out thy Verse was rough and lame?
They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move,
And writ so pliant, nicely, soft and smooth,
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love.
But who of Beaus, and Knaves and Fools wou'd Sing,
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring;
For 'tis no Satyr if it has no Sting.
In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be,
Must think and write like Juvenal and Thee.
Let others boast of all the mighty Nine,
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine;
I had, my Oldham, not a Muse but Thee,
Ev'n Thou wer't all the mighty Nine to Me!
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire—
But 'tis a Warmth that does with Thee expire;
For when the Sun is set, that Guides the Day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his Way.
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine;
I had, my Oldham, not a Muse but Thee,
Ev'n Thou wer't all the mighty Nine to Me!
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire—
But 'tis a Warmth that does with Thee expire;
For when the Sun is set, that Guides the Day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his Way.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |