Poems and Translations By Christopher Pitt |
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An Epistle to Dr. Edward Young, at Eastbury in
Dorsetshire, on the Review at Sarum, 1722.
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 | Poems and Translations |  |
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An Epistle to Dr. Edward Young, at Eastbury in Dorsetshire, on the Review at Sarum, 1722.
While with your Doddington retir'd you sit,
Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and Wit;
By turns relieving with the circling Draught,
Each Pause of Chat, and Interval of Thought:
Or thro' the well-glaz'd Tube, from Bus'ness free'd,
Draw the rich Spirit of the Indian Weed;
Or bid your Eyes o'er Vanbrugh's Models roam,
And trace in Miniature the future Dome;
(While busy Fancy with imagin'd Pow'r
Builds up the Work of Ages in an Hour)
Or lost in Thought, contemplative you rove,
Thro' op'ning Vista's, and the shady Grove;
Where a new Eden in the Wilds is found,
And all the Seasons in a Spot of Ground:
There, if you exercise your Tragick Rage,
To bring some Hero on the British Stage;
Whose Cause the Audience with Applause will crown,
And make his Triumphs or his Tears their own:
Throw by the bold Design; and paint no more
Imagin'd Chiefs, and Monarchs of an Hour;
From fabled Worthies, call thy Muse to sing
Of real Wonders, and Britannia's King.
Charm'd with his flowing Burgundy and Wit;
By turns relieving with the circling Draught,
Each Pause of Chat, and Interval of Thought:
2
Draw the rich Spirit of the Indian Weed;
Or bid your Eyes o'er Vanbrugh's Models roam,
And trace in Miniature the future Dome;
(While busy Fancy with imagin'd Pow'r
Builds up the Work of Ages in an Hour)
Or lost in Thought, contemplative you rove,
Thro' op'ning Vista's, and the shady Grove;
Where a new Eden in the Wilds is found,
And all the Seasons in a Spot of Ground:
There, if you exercise your Tragick Rage,
To bring some Hero on the British Stage;
Whose Cause the Audience with Applause will crown,
And make his Triumphs or his Tears their own:
Throw by the bold Design; and paint no more
Imagin'd Chiefs, and Monarchs of an Hour;
3
Of real Wonders, and Britannia's King.
Oh! hadst thou seen him, when the gath'ring Train
Fill'd up proud Sarum's wide-extended Plain!
Then, when he stoop'd from awful Majesty,
Put on the Man, and laid the Sov'reign by;
When the glad Nations saw their King appear,
Begirt with Armies, and the Pride of War;
More pleas'd his People's longing Eyes to bless,
He look'd, and breath'd Benevolence and Peace:
When in his Hand Britannia's awful Lord,
Held forth the Olive, while he grasp'd the Sword.
So Jove, tho' arm'd to blast the Titans Pride,
With all his burning Thunders at his side,
Fram'd, while he terrify'd the distant Foe,
His Scheme of Blessings for the World below.
This hadst thou seen, thy willing Muse would raise
Her strongest Wing, to reach her Sov'reign's Praise.
To what bold heights our daring Hopes may climb?
The Theme so great! the Poet so sublime!
I saw him, Young, and to these ravish'd Eyes,
Ev'n now his godlike Figure seems to rise:
Mild, yet Majestick, was the Monarch's Mien,
Lovely tho' Great, and Awful tho' Serene.
(More than a Coin or Picture can unfold;
Too faint the Colours, and too base the Gold!)
At the blest Sight, transported and amaz'd,
One universal Shout the Thousands rais'd,
And Crowds on Crowds grew Loyal as they gaz'd.
His Foes (if any) own'd the Monarch's Cause,
And chang'd their groundless Clamours to Applause;
Ev'n giddy Faction hail'd the glorious Day,
And wond'ring Envy look'd her Rage away.
As Ceres o'er the Globe her Chariot drew,
And Harvests ripen'd where the Goddess flew;
So, where his gracious Footsteps He inclin'd,
Peace flew before, and Plenty march'd behind.
Where wild Affliction rages, He appears
To wipe the Widow's and the Orphan's Tears:
The Sons of Misery before him bow,
And for their Merit only plead their Woe.
So well he loves the Publick Liberty,
His Mercy sets the private Captive free.
Soon as our Royal Angel came in view,
The Prisons burst, the starting Hinges flew;
The Dungeons open'd, and resign'd their Prey,
To Joy, to Life, to Freedom, and the Day:
The Chains drop off; the grateful Captives rear
Their Hands unmanacled in Praise and Pray'r.
Had thus Victorious Cæsar sought to please,
And rul'd the vanquish'd World with Arts like These;
The gen'rous Brutus had not scorn'd to bend,
But sunk the Rigid Patriot in the Friend;
Nor to that bold Excess of Virtue ran,
To stab the Monarch, where he lov'd the Man.
And Cato reconcil'd, had ne'er disdain'd
To live a Subject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Muse too long,
From the great Theme, that mocks my humble Song,
A Theme that asks a Virgil, or a Young.
Fill'd up proud Sarum's wide-extended Plain!
Then, when he stoop'd from awful Majesty,
Put on the Man, and laid the Sov'reign by;
When the glad Nations saw their King appear,
Begirt with Armies, and the Pride of War;
More pleas'd his People's longing Eyes to bless,
He look'd, and breath'd Benevolence and Peace:
When in his Hand Britannia's awful Lord,
Held forth the Olive, while he grasp'd the Sword.
So Jove, tho' arm'd to blast the Titans Pride,
With all his burning Thunders at his side,
Fram'd, while he terrify'd the distant Foe,
His Scheme of Blessings for the World below.
4
Her strongest Wing, to reach her Sov'reign's Praise.
To what bold heights our daring Hopes may climb?
The Theme so great! the Poet so sublime!
I saw him, Young, and to these ravish'd Eyes,
Ev'n now his godlike Figure seems to rise:
Mild, yet Majestick, was the Monarch's Mien,
Lovely tho' Great, and Awful tho' Serene.
(More than a Coin or Picture can unfold;
Too faint the Colours, and too base the Gold!)
At the blest Sight, transported and amaz'd,
One universal Shout the Thousands rais'd,
And Crowds on Crowds grew Loyal as they gaz'd.
His Foes (if any) own'd the Monarch's Cause,
And chang'd their groundless Clamours to Applause;
Ev'n giddy Faction hail'd the glorious Day,
And wond'ring Envy look'd her Rage away.
5
And Harvests ripen'd where the Goddess flew;
So, where his gracious Footsteps He inclin'd,
Peace flew before, and Plenty march'd behind.
Where wild Affliction rages, He appears
To wipe the Widow's and the Orphan's Tears:
The Sons of Misery before him bow,
And for their Merit only plead their Woe.
So well he loves the Publick Liberty,
His Mercy sets the private Captive free.
Soon as our Royal Angel came in view,
The Prisons burst, the starting Hinges flew;
The Dungeons open'd, and resign'd their Prey,
To Joy, to Life, to Freedom, and the Day:
The Chains drop off; the grateful Captives rear
Their Hands unmanacled in Praise and Pray'r.
Had thus Victorious Cæsar sought to please,
And rul'd the vanquish'd World with Arts like These;
6
But sunk the Rigid Patriot in the Friend;
Nor to that bold Excess of Virtue ran,
To stab the Monarch, where he lov'd the Man.
And Cato reconcil'd, had ne'er disdain'd
To live a Subject, where a Brunswick reign'd.
But I detain your nobler Muse too long,
From the great Theme, that mocks my humble Song,
A Theme that asks a Virgil, or a Young.
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