Three poetical epistles To Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Dandridge, and Mr. Lambert, masters in the art of painting. Written by Mr. Mitchell |
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Dabimus, capimusque vicissim.
1
THE FIRST EPISTLE.
To Mr. HOGARTH, An Eminent History and Conversation Painter.
------ Micat inter omnes.
Hor.
Hor.
Hogarth
, by Merit of your own,
A Candidate for first Renown!
Accept the Praise a Friend bestows,
A Friend, who pays but what he owes;
For still the more your Works he views,
The more he borrows for the Muse:
Discharging Debt to Hogarth due,
One Score scarce clear'd, he chalks anew.
A Candidate for first Renown!
Accept the Praise a Friend bestows,
A Friend, who pays but what he owes;
For still the more your Works he views,
The more he borrows for the Muse:
Discharging Debt to Hogarth due,
One Score scarce clear'd, he chalks anew.
2
When, with an unavailing Care,
He tries to sing the lovely Fair,
Attempts in Comic Scenes to shine,
Or boldly draws a Tragic Line,
Your better Genius guides his Flight,
A fiery Pillar in his Night!
His Muse outsoars her self, amaz'd,
By Hogarth's great Assistance rais'd.
Just to Elisha grew inspir'd,
By sage Elijah's Spirit fir'd.
So, but for Virtues in Him found,
Christ's fishing Followers had been drown'd.
He tries to sing the lovely Fair,
Attempts in Comic Scenes to shine,
Or boldly draws a Tragic Line,
Your better Genius guides his Flight,
A fiery Pillar in his Night!
His Muse outsoars her self, amaz'd,
By Hogarth's great Assistance rais'd.
Just to Elisha grew inspir'd,
By sage Elijah's Spirit fir'd.
So, but for Virtues in Him found,
Christ's fishing Followers had been drown'd.
The Labours of your Hand present
Our various Sense and Speech in Paint.
Such vital Instinct each receives,
We think one joys, another grieves!
Here, the fond Lover's Pains appear;
The Hero's Fire and Fury there!
The silent Hypocrites exert
Such Pow'r, and play so well their Part,
That different Passions they bestow,
Affright with Fear, and melt with Woe,
Themselves unconscious what they cause,
And how our Hearts the Master draws.
Our various Sense and Speech in Paint.
Such vital Instinct each receives,
We think one joys, another grieves!
Here, the fond Lover's Pains appear;
The Hero's Fire and Fury there!
The silent Hypocrites exert
Such Pow'r, and play so well their Part,
That different Passions they bestow,
Affright with Fear, and melt with Woe,
3
And how our Hearts the Master draws.
You have the Skill to catch the Grace,
And secret Meanings of a Face;
From the quick Eyes to snatch the Fire,
And limn th'Ideas they inspire;
To picture Passions, and, thro' Skin,
Call forth the living Soul within.
More vivid Tinctures never glow
In Summer Cloud, or wat'ry Bow.
If Life Pygmalion's Iv'ry fir'd,
Divinity your Draughts inspir'd;
For, thro' the Shades, Promethean Flame
Kindles your Canvass into Fame.
And secret Meanings of a Face;
From the quick Eyes to snatch the Fire,
And limn th'Ideas they inspire;
To picture Passions, and, thro' Skin,
Call forth the living Soul within.
More vivid Tinctures never glow
In Summer Cloud, or wat'ry Bow.
If Life Pygmalion's Iv'ry fir'd,
Divinity your Draughts inspir'd;
For, thro' the Shades, Promethean Flame
Kindles your Canvass into Fame.
Painting alone is not your Praise:
You know the World, and all its Ways;
Life, high and low, alike command,
And shew, each Work, a Master-Hand.
One Piece, with Wonder and Amaze,
For Hours together we cou'd gaze,
Imagining that it is your best,
And more a Favourite than the rest:
But, when we turn around our Eyes
To view another, what Surprize
And Rapture all our Spirits fill?
In all is shewn a Godlike Skill!
Our Senses are so well deceiv'd,
That Likeness is the Life believ'd.
So Birds to the feign'd Clusters flew,
Which Zeuxis, with such Justice, drew.
You know the World, and all its Ways;
Life, high and low, alike command,
And shew, each Work, a Master-Hand.
One Piece, with Wonder and Amaze,
For Hours together we cou'd gaze,
Imagining that it is your best,
And more a Favourite than the rest:
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To view another, what Surprize
And Rapture all our Spirits fill?
In all is shewn a Godlike Skill!
Our Senses are so well deceiv'd,
That Likeness is the Life believ'd.
So Birds to the feign'd Clusters flew,
Which Zeuxis, with such Justice, drew.
Large Families obey your Hand;
Assemblies rise at your Command;
Your Pencil peoples where it goes,
And Worlds of new Creation shows.
Just so Deucalion's generous Strife
Inspir'd the Senseless Stones with Life.
Your Genius, like a Ball of Fire,
The farther it is thrown, and higher,
Blazes the more, and, on each Hand,
Breaks out the Glory of the Land.
You make us say with Sheba's Queen,
When Israel's Monarch she had seen,
One Half of Hogarth is not known,
But what our Eyes behold, we own.
Assemblies rise at your Command;
Your Pencil peoples where it goes,
And Worlds of new Creation shows.
Just so Deucalion's generous Strife
Inspir'd the Senseless Stones with Life.
Your Genius, like a Ball of Fire,
The farther it is thrown, and higher,
Blazes the more, and, on each Hand,
Breaks out the Glory of the Land.
You make us say with Sheba's Queen,
When Israel's Monarch she had seen,
One Half of Hogarth is not known,
But what our Eyes behold, we own.
5
Shakespeare in Painting, still improve,
And more the World's Attention move.
Self-taught, in your great Art excel,
And from your Rivals bear the Bell.
But, Rivals—you have none to fear—
Who dares, in such a Style, appear?
Dutch and Italian, wide Extreams,
Unite, in You, their diff'rent Names!
Still be esteem'd the First and Last,
Orig'nal in your Way and Taste;
Tho Thornhill's Self shou'd jealous grow,
And try your Doings to out-do:
But Thornhill, mingling Flame with Flame,
Will view with Pride your rising Fame;
Not, meanly hazarding his own,
Attempt to rival your Renown,
Lest He shou'd be by Fate pursu'd,
Like Saturn, whom his Son subdu'd.
And more the World's Attention move.
Self-taught, in your great Art excel,
And from your Rivals bear the Bell.
But, Rivals—you have none to fear—
Who dares, in such a Style, appear?
Dutch and Italian, wide Extreams,
Unite, in You, their diff'rent Names!
Still be esteem'd the First and Last,
Orig'nal in your Way and Taste;
Tho Thornhill's Self shou'd jealous grow,
And try your Doings to out-do:
But Thornhill, mingling Flame with Flame,
Will view with Pride your rising Fame;
Not, meanly hazarding his own,
Attempt to rival your Renown,
Lest He shou'd be by Fate pursu'd,
Like Saturn, whom his Son subdu'd.
June 12th, 1730.
6
THE SECOND EPISTLE.
To Mr. DANDRIDGE. An Eminent Face Painter.
------ Neque Te silebo.
Hor.
Hor.
Unskill'd in Painting, vain were my Essay
To sing its Progress to the present Day,
From what Beginnings its Perfection came,
And when it flourish'd with the greatest Fame,
What it has suffer'd by Barbarian Rage,
What Masters have excell'd in ev'ry Age,
The Character of each how diff'rent been,
And by what Marks their various Manner seen.
To sing its Progress to the present Day,
From what Beginnings its Perfection came,
And when it flourish'd with the greatest Fame,
What it has suffer'd by Barbarian Rage,
What Masters have excell'd in ev'ry Age,
The Character of each how diff'rent been,
And by what Marks their various Manner seen.
Nor wou'd I, partial or audacious strive,
To shew what Artists most excel alive;
What British Masters Rivals are confest;
Who have most Bus'ness, and who's deem'd the best;
How Thornhill, Jervas, Richardson, and Kent,
Lambert and Hogarth, Zinks and Aikman paint;
What Semblance in the Vanderbanks I see,
And wherein Dall and Highmore disagree;
How Wooten, Harvey, Tilliman, and Wright,
To one great End, in diff'rent Roads delight;
And why a thousand nameless Names contend
For Fame, without a Genius, or a Friend.
To shew what Artists most excel alive;
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Who have most Bus'ness, and who's deem'd the best;
How Thornhill, Jervas, Richardson, and Kent,
Lambert and Hogarth, Zinks and Aikman paint;
What Semblance in the Vanderbanks I see,
And wherein Dall and Highmore disagree;
How Wooten, Harvey, Tilliman, and Wright,
To one great End, in diff'rent Roads delight;
And why a thousand nameless Names contend
For Fame, without a Genius, or a Friend.
Be it the Purport of my meaning Muse
To sing of Dandridge, and his noble Views,
How well the Master manages the Strife,
To wake the senseless Canvass into Life;
How Nature yields obedient to his Will,
And new Creations wait upon his Skill:
What Warmth and Spirit in his Colours glow,
What lovely Likeness all his Figures show,
In Attitude such Grace, in Air such Fire,
As jealous Rivals envy and admire:
All inly own what frankly few declare,
But the most spiteful of like Skill despair.
To sing of Dandridge, and his noble Views,
How well the Master manages the Strife,
To wake the senseless Canvass into Life;
How Nature yields obedient to his Will,
And new Creations wait upon his Skill:
What Warmth and Spirit in his Colours glow,
What lovely Likeness all his Figures show,
In Attitude such Grace, in Air such Fire,
As jealous Rivals envy and admire:
All inly own what frankly few declare,
But the most spiteful of like Skill despair.
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When fam'd Apelles drew the Cyprian Queen,
The several Charms of fairest Nymphs were seen,
From each, a fav'rite Part he, cautious, took,
(For no one Mortal so divine cou'd look:)
But Dandridge, from Ideas of his own,
And Master of each Master's Talent known,
Collects the glorious Attributes of Fame,
And to all Beauties lays a rightful Claim.
Him it suffices not a Sketch to show,
A Surface, but the Treasures hid below.
He dives in Nature's Mines, extracts the Ore,
And stamps Distinction on the precious Store.
His Shadows all like Substances appear.
We see a Soul, and living Language hear.
To his great Pencil no Attempt proves vain.
He draws a Muse as easie as a Man.
The various Beauties of the Ancients blends,
And makes the Greek and Roman Masters Friends.
We see Vandyke in every finish'd Face,
With Rubens' Colours, and with Raphael's Grace.
Here, he presents a Guido's manly Air,
The glowing Beauties of a Titian, There.
In This, Carrachi's noble Strength appears,
That, all the Softness of Corregio bears.
No stiffen'd Strokes betray a labouring Hand,
For Paulo's Freedom is his full Command.
The several Charms of fairest Nymphs were seen,
From each, a fav'rite Part he, cautious, took,
(For no one Mortal so divine cou'd look:)
But Dandridge, from Ideas of his own,
And Master of each Master's Talent known,
Collects the glorious Attributes of Fame,
And to all Beauties lays a rightful Claim.
Him it suffices not a Sketch to show,
A Surface, but the Treasures hid below.
He dives in Nature's Mines, extracts the Ore,
And stamps Distinction on the precious Store.
His Shadows all like Substances appear.
We see a Soul, and living Language hear.
To his great Pencil no Attempt proves vain.
He draws a Muse as easie as a Man.
The various Beauties of the Ancients blends,
And makes the Greek and Roman Masters Friends.
We see Vandyke in every finish'd Face,
With Rubens' Colours, and with Raphael's Grace.
Here, he presents a Guido's manly Air,
The glowing Beauties of a Titian, There.
In This, Carrachi's noble Strength appears,
That, all the Softness of Corregio bears.
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For Paulo's Freedom is his full Command.
Never had bold Prometheus thrown away
His Heaven-rap'd Fires upon inglorious Clay,
But courted Forms more worthy noble Thoughts,
Had He, O Dandridge, seen thy finish'd Draughts.
Such mimick Thunder had Salmonius made,
Never had Jove, by real, struck him dead,
But of a rival Godhead been afraid;
Preserv'd his Magazine for Self-Defence,
And stood the Siege of great Omnipotence.
His Heaven-rap'd Fires upon inglorious Clay,
But courted Forms more worthy noble Thoughts,
Had He, O Dandridge, seen thy finish'd Draughts.
Such mimick Thunder had Salmonius made,
Never had Jove, by real, struck him dead,
But of a rival Godhead been afraid;
Preserv'd his Magazine for Self-Defence,
And stood the Siege of great Omnipotence.
I hail thy noble Labours, where Design,
Postures, and Shade, and just Proportion, shine:
Where all that's bold, soft, beautiful, and strong,
A Genius shew, and must be honour'd long.
If ought is wanting to express thy Art,
And thy due Fame to future Times impart,
That will each Month, each rolling Moment, give;
Age will not rob, but make thy Glories live.
Postures, and Shade, and just Proportion, shine:
Where all that's bold, soft, beautiful, and strong,
A Genius shew, and must be honour'd long.
If ought is wanting to express thy Art,
And thy due Fame to future Times impart,
That will each Month, each rolling Moment, give;
Age will not rob, but make thy Glories live.
O cou'd thy Pencil to my Pen transfer
Immortal Life, and make my Muse a Star!
Cou'd I but hope that, mingling Flame with Flame,
Like friendly Colours, I cou'd join my Name,
And still contract new Strength from Thee to pass,
Thro' Time, uninjur'd as the lasting Brass,
With what vast Toil, ambitious, wou'd I write,
That, like our Souls, our Honours might unite?
But vain my Wish, as weak my Muse's Pow'r.
Time soon will modern Poets Lays devour.
The best is limited to narrow Space,
And can but flourish in his native Place.
The Painter claims each Climate as his own,
Speaks every Tongue, and seizes on Renown.
Free of each Region is his Godlike Hand,
And Worlds are subject to his wide Command.
Immortal Life, and make my Muse a Star!
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Like friendly Colours, I cou'd join my Name,
And still contract new Strength from Thee to pass,
Thro' Time, uninjur'd as the lasting Brass,
With what vast Toil, ambitious, wou'd I write,
That, like our Souls, our Honours might unite?
But vain my Wish, as weak my Muse's Pow'r.
Time soon will modern Poets Lays devour.
The best is limited to narrow Space,
And can but flourish in his native Place.
The Painter claims each Climate as his own,
Speaks every Tongue, and seizes on Renown.
Free of each Region is his Godlike Hand,
And Worlds are subject to his wide Command.
Boldly proceed, as thy good Stars direct,
Nor, vainly dubious, thy great Pencil check.
Let more exalted Works thy Genius dare,
And Emulation animate thy Care.
Suffice it not to drudge on petty Draughts,
But be thy Strokes extensive as thy Thoughts.
Summon each living Image in thy Breast,
And on the Canvass be thy Soul exprest.
What are the Shrubs, compar'd to lofty Trees?
Such single Pieces are to Histories.
Nor, vainly dubious, thy great Pencil check.
Let more exalted Works thy Genius dare,
And Emulation animate thy Care.
Suffice it not to drudge on petty Draughts,
But be thy Strokes extensive as thy Thoughts.
Summon each living Image in thy Breast,
And on the Canvass be thy Soul exprest.
11
Such single Pieces are to Histories.
'Tis true indeed, and pity 'tis so true,
The Times oblige Thee to contract thy View;
Painters, as well as Poets, must have Bread;
The Belly lays down Orders for the Head.
Who nobly rises that receives no Pay?
The World rewards but in a selfish way.
Hence thou too oft art doom'd to draw a Fool,
And I, alas, sometimes to turn a Tool;
Yet diff'rent far the Fate of what we do.
Thou doubly gain'st from the inglorious Crew.
Tho' Sister Arts we boast, the eldest mine,
The best Encouragement is always thine.
And 'tis not strange; for, by thy matchless Skill,
Beauty it self is made more beauteous still.
Oft, in thy Postures, Folly's taught to sink,
And the consummate Blockhead seems to think.
But whensoe'er a venal Verse I write,
I earn no Fame, and scarce a Dinner by't.
The flatter'd Patron may perhaps be pleas'd,
But no new Trophy's to my Honour rais'd.
The Times oblige Thee to contract thy View;
Painters, as well as Poets, must have Bread;
The Belly lays down Orders for the Head.
Who nobly rises that receives no Pay?
The World rewards but in a selfish way.
Hence thou too oft art doom'd to draw a Fool,
And I, alas, sometimes to turn a Tool;
Yet diff'rent far the Fate of what we do.
Thou doubly gain'st from the inglorious Crew.
Tho' Sister Arts we boast, the eldest mine,
The best Encouragement is always thine.
And 'tis not strange; for, by thy matchless Skill,
Beauty it self is made more beauteous still.
Oft, in thy Postures, Folly's taught to sink,
And the consummate Blockhead seems to think.
But whensoe'er a venal Verse I write,
I earn no Fame, and scarce a Dinner by't.
The flatter'd Patron may perhaps be pleas'd,
But no new Trophy's to my Honour rais'd.
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How long, good Heav'n, shall Souls, like ours, be crost,
And, unrewarded, genuine Virtues lost?
How long shall worthless Wretches meet Respect,
And covet Fame, unconscious of Defect?
Diff'rent had been our Fate in other Times,
And boundless all thy Drawings and my Rhimes.
No vile Resemblance had been sav'd by Thee,
And nought, but Merit, ever sung by Me.
And, unrewarded, genuine Virtues lost?
How long shall worthless Wretches meet Respect,
And covet Fame, unconscious of Defect?
Diff'rent had been our Fate in other Times,
And boundless all thy Drawings and my Rhimes.
No vile Resemblance had been sav'd by Thee,
And nought, but Merit, ever sung by Me.
But Fate's imperial Will must ever stand,
And we be subject to supreme Command.
Happy if, struggling well against the Stream,
We keep our Quiet, and an honest Name.
For Me, while Dandridge stands my Friend confest,
No adverse Storms of Life shall wreck my Rest.
But doubly blest shou'd my Existence prove,
Cou'd I be useful to the Man I love.
And we be subject to supreme Command.
Happy if, struggling well against the Stream,
We keep our Quiet, and an honest Name.
For Me, while Dandridge stands my Friend confest,
No adverse Storms of Life shall wreck my Rest.
But doubly blest shou'd my Existence prove,
Cou'd I be useful to the Man I love.
November 20th, 1730.
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THE THIRD EPISTLE.
To Mr. LAMBERT. An Eminent Landschape Painter.
Last, but not Least.
Shakespeare.
Hail, noble Artist! Nature's Rival, hail!
How shall a Muse, so feeble and so frail,
Attempt to do thy deathless Labours Right,
And set thy Merit in a fairer Light?
Can Mitchell add to Lambert's gather'd Fame?
Needs He a Bard his Virtues to proclaim?
No. But, while others, in Prosaic Strain,
Their Sense of thy Perfections strive t'explain,
Accept of Me a tributary Lay.
Praise is thy Due, and Verse is in my Way.
How shall a Muse, so feeble and so frail,
Attempt to do thy deathless Labours Right,
And set thy Merit in a fairer Light?
Can Mitchell add to Lambert's gather'd Fame?
Needs He a Bard his Virtues to proclaim?
No. But, while others, in Prosaic Strain,
Their Sense of thy Perfections strive t'explain,
Accept of Me a tributary Lay.
Praise is thy Due, and Verse is in my Way.
Yet far be Flatt'ry from my faithful Muse.
By venal Means, I'd not my Credit lose.
Borrow'd Encomiums a false Heart betray,
And hateful Sounds to wise Mens Ears convey.
Who writes to Lambert shou'd, like Him, be free,
And make his Morals and his Mind agree;
By Reason guided, and to Nature true,
The Paths of Honour, undisguis'd, pursue;
Easie, tho' regular; tho' noble, Plain;
And elegant, in unaffected Strain.
By venal Means, I'd not my Credit lose.
Borrow'd Encomiums a false Heart betray,
And hateful Sounds to wise Mens Ears convey.
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And make his Morals and his Mind agree;
By Reason guided, and to Nature true,
The Paths of Honour, undisguis'd, pursue;
Easie, tho' regular; tho' noble, Plain;
And elegant, in unaffected Strain.
I gaze thy Glories, and, by what's admir'd,
Conceive Emotion, and appear inspir'd:
But ne'er can hope, with such unequal Lays,
To celebrate thy brighter Pow'r and Praise.
Here, well might Pope his outmost Skill display,
Whose Muse so much, in Jervas' Praise, cou'd say.
How wou'd the Master's raptur'd Genius shine
On such a Theme, in each melodious Line!
Touch'd by his Hand, ev'n Lambert's Light and Shade
Wou'd seem with greater Grace and Spirit laid.
We then shou'd see Perfection's Self improv'd,
And doat on Landschapes, that before we lov'd.
Conceive Emotion, and appear inspir'd:
But ne'er can hope, with such unequal Lays,
To celebrate thy brighter Pow'r and Praise.
Here, well might Pope his outmost Skill display,
Whose Muse so much, in Jervas' Praise, cou'd say.
How wou'd the Master's raptur'd Genius shine
On such a Theme, in each melodious Line!
Touch'd by his Hand, ev'n Lambert's Light and Shade
Wou'd seem with greater Grace and Spirit laid.
We then shou'd see Perfection's Self improv'd,
And doat on Landschapes, that before we lov'd.
But Pope himself, on a Seraphic Wing,
Wou'd strive in vain thy mighty Pow'r to sing:
But, boldly soaring to supreme Renown,
Like Icarus, from Heav'n fall headlong down.
Thro' what strange Scenes thy Pencil's taught to trace
The Master Lines of Nature's finish'd Face;
How with false Life thy Strokes amuse the Eye,
And Pictures with the Places seem to vie;
'Twou'd tire the Virtuoso's Strength to tell.
Myst'ries, by Priests, might be explain'd as well.
Whose bold Ideas reconcil'd can be,
To view the various Virtues mix'd in Thee,
In whom both grand and simple Taste we find,
And Claude Lorrain and Gaspar Pausin join'd?
Wou'd strive in vain thy mighty Pow'r to sing:
But, boldly soaring to supreme Renown,
Like Icarus, from Heav'n fall headlong down.
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The Master Lines of Nature's finish'd Face;
How with false Life thy Strokes amuse the Eye,
And Pictures with the Places seem to vie;
'Twou'd tire the Virtuoso's Strength to tell.
Myst'ries, by Priests, might be explain'd as well.
Whose bold Ideas reconcil'd can be,
To view the various Virtues mix'd in Thee,
In whom both grand and simple Taste we find,
And Claude Lorrain and Gaspar Pausin join'd?
What living Muse can trace thy wond'rous Flights
Thro' Fancy's lofty and unbounded Heights?
Tell how, from Objects by the Senses brought;
Thy intellectual Imagery is wrought?
How thy great Genius grasps Creation broad,
And, on the Canvass, draws the Works of God.
Contracts the Wonders of his Sea and Land,
And, while Beholders in Amazement stand,
Almost provokes Idolatry of Heart?
So well is Nature copied by thy Art.
Ev'n thy coarse Dawbing and rough Strokes delight!
Thy Play-House shifted Scenes amuse the Sight;
Spectators think they're present where they seem,
And Rich himself the least Enchanter deem.
What Poets of Amphion's Musick feign,
Of dancing Stones, and Thebes rear'd up again,
Apply'd to thy great Pencil, wou'd be true,
Or so wou'd seem to the judicious few.
Powlett, with Pleasure, every Charm explores,
And, what he cannot comprehend, adores.
Thro' Fancy's lofty and unbounded Heights?
Tell how, from Objects by the Senses brought;
Thy intellectual Imagery is wrought?
How thy great Genius grasps Creation broad,
And, on the Canvass, draws the Works of God.
Contracts the Wonders of his Sea and Land,
And, while Beholders in Amazement stand,
Almost provokes Idolatry of Heart?
So well is Nature copied by thy Art.
Ev'n thy coarse Dawbing and rough Strokes delight!
Thy Play-House shifted Scenes amuse the Sight;
Spectators think they're present where they seem,
And Rich himself the least Enchanter deem.
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Of dancing Stones, and Thebes rear'd up again,
Apply'd to thy great Pencil, wou'd be true,
Or so wou'd seem to the judicious few.
Powlett, with Pleasure, every Charm explores,
And, what he cannot comprehend, adores.
Prodigious Pow'r! that yields such vast Delight,
And gives such full Enjoyment to the Sight;
Brings Objects, distant and dispers'd, so near,
And Order, 'midst Confusion, makes appear!
Such Warmth, such Keeping, Harmony and Taste
The Labours of a Master stand confest;
As Motion, Light and Heat, combin'd in one,
Make up the glorious Essence of the Sun.
But as, compar'd to that great Source of Day,
The Moon and Stars a scanty Light display,
What are thy Works, compar'd to thy Designs,
The Soul, whence every Beam of Wonder shines?
What are the glorious Products of thy Art,
When balanc'd with the Virtues of thy Heart?
Where hospitable Entertainment's giv'n
To all the Graces ever came from Heav'n!
Happy the few, in thy choice Friendship blest!
Thy Self how happy, of such Worth possest!
And gives such full Enjoyment to the Sight;
Brings Objects, distant and dispers'd, so near,
And Order, 'midst Confusion, makes appear!
Such Warmth, such Keeping, Harmony and Taste
The Labours of a Master stand confest;
As Motion, Light and Heat, combin'd in one,
Make up the glorious Essence of the Sun.
But as, compar'd to that great Source of Day,
The Moon and Stars a scanty Light display,
What are thy Works, compar'd to thy Designs,
The Soul, whence every Beam of Wonder shines?
What are the glorious Products of thy Art,
When balanc'd with the Virtues of thy Heart?
Where hospitable Entertainment's giv'n
To all the Graces ever came from Heav'n!
Happy the few, in thy choice Friendship blest!
Thy Self how happy, of such Worth possest!
December 19th, 1730.
FINIS.
| Three poetical epistles | |