The Victory of Death or, The Fall of Beauty. A Visionary Pindarick-Poem, Occasion'd by the Ever to be deplor'd Death of the Right Honourable the Lady Cutts. By Mr John Hopkins |
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THE MUSE To the PATRON. |
 | The Victory of Death |  |
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THE MUSE To the PATRON.
Tempora mutantur, & nos mutamur in illis.
—Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.
—Hæc olim meminisse juvabit.
Behold, my Son, these mourning Robes I use,
To shew my Grief for your departed Muse.
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Your Muse, your Mistress, and your Wife in one.
I, who have long been woo'd, and won by you,
Sue in my turn,—then hear me while I sue.
The Soul should seldom with its Wants comply,
Who faintly asks, but teaches to deny.
Still should Wit's Cause be pleaded by the fair,
The rising Poet is the Muses care.
'Tis you, whose Bays with branching Laurels grow,
My best-lov'd Son, the Muse addresses now.
Beneath their shade, as a secure retreat,
Afford my new-born Child an humble Seat,
Fenc'd from the rude Insults of an impending Fate.
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Yet now he sues to be no longer so.
Or first, or last, all do my Charms despise,
I make them witty oft, but seldom wise.
'Tis true, in Numbers still he feels Delight,
He has a Genius: Born, and loves to write,
But he repines, that Custom ill has made
A lib'ral Art a mercenary Trade.
None, but immortal Dryden, nobly vain,
Great in his fancy'd Empire of Disdain,
Felt Rage enough, and Courage only to sustain.
But here this tend'rer Off-spring faintly sings,
With infant Voice, and flys with feebler Wings.
Approaching Storms he dreads, nor can he bear
The furious Blasts of a malignant Air.
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Or rather boast it but for you alone.
By you, and only you, (my Heir) 'twas given,
That Mankind knows me to be sprung from Heaven.
You, whose sublimest Genius reach'd the height,
Whence first I flew, and track'd my sacred flight.
Wisely to you does my new Off-spring sue,
Of all Mankind, he would serve chiefly you.
If Verse has Charms, 'tis now they must prevail,
Too well he knows all lost, if here he fail.
You 'tis he claims, nor shall he poorly strive
For any other Patron—Cutts alive.
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But hold,—I find I must not dare to raise,
Nor clap my joyful Wings to spread your Praise.
The bashful Poet does my Suppliant stand,
And gently checks me with his trembling Hand.
So pure his Flames.—And they who love the best,
Know what they feel can never be exprest.
Warm are his Thoughts, as warm his new Desires,
Yet bear no vain, or vast, ambitious Fires.
To you, his gen'rous Patron, lost, he flies,
On you builds humble Hopes, on you relies.
Nor rose his Wishes, since they first began,
Above the Poet, or beneath the Man.
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'Tis here his nobler Expectation stands.
He would your Favours from your Choice derive,
Pleas'd, he receives what you are pleas'd to give.
But if your gen'rous Temper doubts to choose,
The Poet's Mind lyes open to the Muse.
Most fond he courts what you can best bestow,
For most he serves himself, in serving you.
Not that his Merits any Claim can boast,
But Favours nere in grateful Souls are lost.
All have their prosp'rous Hours, he courts the Time;
Want of Success is ever charg'd a Crime;
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He asks of Heaven, and when it grants, gives Praise.
Let not the happy view his Wreck with Scorn,
He was, like them, to flowing Plenty born.
His Scene of Life seem'd all serene as theirs,
With blooming Fortunes in his blooming Years.
Then flourishing Joys did on his Senses fall;
But—when War's Thunder broke, it blasted all.
On you, my Son, he owns his Hope must stand,
Nor would be rais'd by any vulgar Hand.
Tho' I, the Muse, thro' wilful Tracks have hurl'd,
And snatch'd him hence to my aërial World,
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Who bore up pale the trembling Youth above,
And fixt his happy Seat, plac'd in the Courts of Jove.
FINIS.
| The Victory of Death | |