 | Third Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated |  |
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THE THIRD EPISTLE OF THE First Book of HORACE Imitated.
To the Right Honorable JOHN Earl of ORRERY.
Say, Orrery, for This I long to hear,
Is War the Voice of Common and of Peer?
What Insult new to just Resentment warms?
And when, and where, Augustus calls to Arms?
Say, must We break cold Thames's Wintry Chain,
To vindicate our Empire on the Main?
Or wait, till Spring from icy Bondage frees,
To fix Herculean Tow'rs in Midland Seas
Again must We inrich with Streams of Blood
With Fleets, with Armies, the Sicilian Flood?
Or warmer Hills, and richer Vallies know,
And far as Indian Georgia chace the Foe?
There give the British Navy to deride
French Artifice, and humble Spanish Pride?
Is War the Voice of Common and of Peer?
What Insult new to just Resentment warms?
And when, and where, Augustus calls to Arms?
Say, must We break cold Thames's Wintry Chain,
To vindicate our Empire on the Main?
Or wait, till Spring from icy Bondage frees,
To fix Herculean Tow'rs in Midland Seas
Again must We inrich with Streams of Blood
With Fleets, with Armies, the Sicilian Flood?
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And far as Indian Georgia chace the Foe?
There give the British Navy to deride
French Artifice, and humble Spanish Pride?
Meantime what studious Youth with polish'd Hand,
(A Lover of the Muse may This demand!)
What Bard attempts to touch, and not prophane,
The Glories of a new Augustan Reign?
And, mighty Cæsar, with becoming Rage,
Transmit thy Leagues and Wars to distant Age?
(A Lover of the Muse may This demand!)
What Bard attempts to touch, and not prophane,
The Glories of a new Augustan Reign?
And, mighty Cæsar, with becoming Rage,
Transmit thy Leagues and Wars to distant Age?
Is Brooke the Man, the weighty Task to chuse?
Befriended and the Friend of ev'ry Muse!
Whose Merit, long restrain'd by modest Fear,
Shall soon familiar sound to ev'ry Ear.
For nor in vulgar Grove He prides to sing,
Nor pales to drink of Milton's rapid Spring;
Disdaining open Lakes, and Rivers known:
Scarce more the Spring of Milton than his own.
Say, how in Health? To what Delight inclin'd?
And bears He still our ancient Love in Mind?
Soars to what Heights on what auspicious Wings?
What Tuscan Measures fits to British Strings?
Or mounts the Buskin'd Bard the Tragic Stage,
Proud, not to flatter, but instruct the Age?
With Rage each Manly Soul, each Female Heart
With Pity moves; and Nature blends with Art?
Befriended and the Friend of ev'ry Muse!
Whose Merit, long restrain'd by modest Fear,
Shall soon familiar sound to ev'ry Ear.
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Nor pales to drink of Milton's rapid Spring;
Disdaining open Lakes, and Rivers known:
Scarce more the Spring of Milton than his own.
Say, how in Health? To what Delight inclin'd?
And bears He still our ancient Love in Mind?
Soars to what Heights on what auspicious Wings?
What Tuscan Measures fits to British Strings?
Or mounts the Buskin'd Bard the Tragic Stage,
Proud, not to flatter, but instruct the Age?
With Rage each Manly Soul, each Female Heart
With Pity moves; and Nature blends with Art?
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And how fares Celsus with his borrow'd Store?—
Much to be caution'd, caution'd much before,
His impotent Ambition to restrain,
Or draw the Fund from his own proper Brain.
Or if from that short Stock He cannot write,
To steal Repute from Poets less in Sight.
Or own Invention not his Gift of Fate,
And try with Me, old Authors to translate.
But spare to touch the New with thievish Hand,
Such as in ev'ry Modern Study stand.
Least, shou'd his decorated Book aspire
To mimick Butler, or to rival Prior;
The full Assembly on some luckless Time,
Seize, each his Turn of Wit, or Tag of Rhyme:
While the sad Crow, late deck'd in varied Dies,
Of sunny Rainbows, and of Argus' Eyes,
The Laugh of All, his native Black resumes,
Stripp'd of his color'd Rays, and furtive Plumes.
Much to be caution'd, caution'd much before,
His impotent Ambition to restrain,
Or draw the Fund from his own proper Brain.
Or if from that short Stock He cannot write,
To steal Repute from Poets less in Sight.
Or own Invention not his Gift of Fate,
And try with Me, old Authors to translate.
But spare to touch the New with thievish Hand,
Such as in ev'ry Modern Study stand.
Least, shou'd his decorated Book aspire
To mimick Butler, or to rival Prior;
The full Assembly on some luckless Time,
Seize, each his Turn of Wit, or Tag of Rhyme:
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Of sunny Rainbows, and of Argus' Eyes,
The Laugh of All, his native Black resumes,
Stripp'd of his color'd Rays, and furtive Plumes.
Then; what attempts my Boyle, in Verse or Prose,
Still happy to invent as to compose?
Where flits He round and round what thy my Bow'rs,
Culling fresh Sweets from new discover'd Flow'rs?
For 'tis no common Taste his Talents show,
To Genius much, to Judgment much They owe;
No Matter there is wanting, here no Dress,
Fancy to form, or Manner to express.
Chuse He the Life of Action or of Ease;
There, brightly shall He shine; Here, mildly please.
Still happy to invent as to compose?
Where flits He round and round what thy my Bow'rs,
Culling fresh Sweets from new discover'd Flow'rs?
For 'tis no common Taste his Talents show,
To Genius much, to Judgment much They owe;
No Matter there is wanting, here no Dress,
Fancy to form, or Manner to express.
Chuse He the Life of Action or of Ease;
There, brightly shall He shine; Here, mildly please.
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For whether, on the grand Affairs of State,
He points his Tongue, and arms for the Debate;
No random Shaft shall from his Quiver fly:
Strong to oppose, and Ready to reply!
Or whether, on Appeals from formal Courts,
He tries the doubling Mazes of Reports;
In Him wrong'd Innocence shall find a Friend:
Anxious to serve, and Pow'rful to defend!
Or whether, on those Hours He calls his own,
When Nought exacts the Senate or the Throne;
Neatly he polishes the bolder Line,
Adds Grace to Strength, and Beauty to Design:
His Privacy shall challenge equal Praise,
And Swift, with honor'd Hand, confer the Bays!
He points his Tongue, and arms for the Debate;
No random Shaft shall from his Quiver fly:
Strong to oppose, and Ready to reply!
Or whether, on Appeals from formal Courts,
He tries the doubling Mazes of Reports;
In Him wrong'd Innocence shall find a Friend:
Anxious to serve, and Pow'rful to defend!
Or whether, on those Hours He calls his own,
When Nought exacts the Senate or the Throne;
Neatly he polishes the bolder Line,
Adds Grace to Strength, and Beauty to Design:
His Privacy shall challenge equal Praise,
And Swift, with honor'd Hand, confer the Bays!
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Sweet the Returns such shining Talents claim,
Esteem, in Private; and in Public, Fame.
Yet not on These Felicity depends,
Not! on the Praise of Foes, or Love of Friends!
If with Himself Man lives not full at Rest.
No! to the Bottom He must search his Breast.
Thence, what escapes his Friends, escapes his Foes,
Yet what He knows, and nurtures tho' He knows,
Thence must He root; those Plants of vicious Kind
That but obstruct the Harvest of his Mind;
Thence, the wild Growth of fond Attachments tear:
Those irritating Lenitives of Care!
Whose secret Anguish He wou'd sooth, not heal;
Tho' Reason bids Him use the sharpest Steel.
Cheat He the World, if still Himself He cheat;
Tis a weak Artifice, a vain Deceit.
For Conscience sinks Him in his own Esteem,
Who aims not to be Happy, but to seem.
Esteem, in Private; and in Public, Fame.
Yet not on These Felicity depends,
Not! on the Praise of Foes, or Love of Friends!
If with Himself Man lives not full at Rest.
No! to the Bottom He must search his Breast.
Thence, what escapes his Friends, escapes his Foes,
Yet what He knows, and nurtures tho' He knows,
Thence must He root; those Plants of vicious Kind
That but obstruct the Harvest of his Mind;
Thence, the wild Growth of fond Attachments tear:
Those irritating Lenitives of Care!
Whose secret Anguish He wou'd sooth, not heal;
Tho' Reason bids Him use the sharpest Steel.
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Tis a weak Artifice, a vain Deceit.
For Conscience sinks Him in his own Esteem,
Who aims not to be Happy, but to seem.
Yet say how Few, from Self-Indulgence clear,
Labor to Be, the Men They wou'd appear?
Be This, to guide Us to substantial Bliss,
Our Daily Toil, our Nightly Study, This;
This first Concern of Life, in ev'ry State,
To Poor, to Rich, to Little, and to Great.
So from the fairer Paths We cannot stray,
Where Wisdom leads, and Honor guards the Way.
So shall We live, whate'er our Rank or View,
True to Ourselves, and to our Country true.
Labor to Be, the Men They wou'd appear?
Be This, to guide Us to substantial Bliss,
Our Daily Toil, our Nightly Study, This;
This first Concern of Life, in ev'ry State,
To Poor, to Rich, to Little, and to Great.
So from the fairer Paths We cannot stray,
Where Wisdom leads, and Honor guards the Way.
So shall We live, whate'er our Rank or View,
True to Ourselves, and to our Country true.
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Nor yet omit (for there the Moral tends)
The sanguine Brothers; are They Foes, or Friends
Too justly here the Rule may be apply'd!
Again unite They? Or again divide?
Fix'd is the Favor, (This I fain wou'd know)
The One shou'd pride to take, the One bestow.
Or opes the former Diff'rence, ill-agreed,
A wider Wound, with larger Stream to bleed.
Ah Youths, still lov'd, or how or where You live
By All beside Yourselves, Yourselves forgive!
What Vice or Virtue, this Disunion makes;
What Sense from Wrongs, or Passion from Mistakes
Pride, to withstand! Or Shame to be withstood!
What Spirit! Or Intemperance of Blood!
Youth, fond to break, uneasy to be broke,
Free to impose, but fierce to bear the Yoke!
Desist, too dear at such Expence to prove
The Bonds, how feeble of Fraternal Love.
Both warm! Both brave! the hurtful Conflict close!
The World affords Variety of Foes.
But, tho' with still unwearied Rage You burn,
May Each in Safety to their Friends return.
Be Boyle your Judge, You answer my Design;
For This my Cellar hoards her Flower of Wine.
The sanguine Brothers; are They Foes, or Friends
Too justly here the Rule may be apply'd!
Again unite They? Or again divide?
Fix'd is the Favor, (This I fain wou'd know)
The One shou'd pride to take, the One bestow.
Or opes the former Diff'rence, ill-agreed,
A wider Wound, with larger Stream to bleed.
Ah Youths, still lov'd, or how or where You live
By All beside Yourselves, Yourselves forgive!
What Vice or Virtue, this Disunion makes;
What Sense from Wrongs, or Passion from Mistakes
Pride, to withstand! Or Shame to be withstood!
What Spirit! Or Intemperance of Blood!
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Free to impose, but fierce to bear the Yoke!
Desist, too dear at such Expence to prove
The Bonds, how feeble of Fraternal Love.
Both warm! Both brave! the hurtful Conflict close!
The World affords Variety of Foes.
But, tho' with still unwearied Rage You burn,
May Each in Safety to their Friends return.
Be Boyle your Judge, You answer my Design;
For This my Cellar hoards her Flower of Wine.
FINIS.
| Third Epistle of the First Book of Horace Imitated | |