Trifles :: :: University of Virginia Library

To succour all whom grief or cares oppress,
To raise neglected merit from distress,
The dying arts t' encourage and revive,
And independent of mankind to live;
This, this is Riches' grand prerogative.
These all the wise and good with joy pursue,
And thousands feel, and bless their power in you.

But stay, my muse, nor rashly urge thy theme,
Examine well thy candidates for fame;
Thy verse is praise. Consider—very few
Can justly say one single line's their due:
Scorn thou with generous freedom to record,
Without his just credentitals, duke or lord:
An honest line prefer to a polite,
So shall thy praise no conscious blush excite.

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But as to paint a lovely female face,
With every charm adorn'd, and every grace,
Requires a finer hand, and greater care,
Than the rough features of a H---r;
So praise than satire asks a nicer touch;
But finisht well, there's nothing charms so much.
A shining character when drawn with art,
Like beauty, whilst it pleases, wins the heart,

Mecænas first the noble list shall grace,
Learning's great patron merits the first place.
O dear to every muse! to every art!
Virtue's chief friend! supporter of desert!
Is there a man, tho' poor, despis'd, opprest,
Yet whose superior genius shines confest;
Whether the useful arts his soul inspire,
Or the politer muse's sacred fire,
Learning and arts t'encourage and extend?
In thee he finds a patron and a friend.
Wealth thus bestow'd returns in lasting fame,
A grateful tribute to the donor's name.

Next him from whom true virtue meets reward,
Is he who shows to want a kind regard.
Carus, tho' blest with plenty, ease, and health,
His every want supply'd from boundless wealth,
Yet feels humanity: his soul o'erflows
To see, or hear, or think on others woes.
Is there a wretch with pinching want opprest?
His pain, till eas'd, is felt in Carus' breast.

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Does any languish under dire disease?
Carus prescribes, or pays the doctor's fees.
Has sad misfortune fatal ruin thrown,
And some expiring family undone?
Carus repairs, and makes the loss his own.
To hear the widow's or the orphan's cries,
His soul in pity melts into his eyes:
O manly tenderness! good-natur'd grief.
To feel, to sympathize, and give relief.

Sure gods are Carus' debtors. Gold thus given,
Lies out at interest in the bank of heaven.

But where's th' advantage then, will Corvus say,
If wealth is only lent to give away?
Corvus, were that the sole prerogative,
How great, how godlike is the power to give!
Thou canst not feel it: True, 'tis too divine
For such a selfish narrow soul as thine.
Comes is rich, belov'd by all mankind,
To chearful hospitality inclin'd;
His ponds with fish, with fowl his woods are stor'd,
Inviting plenty smiles upon his board:
Easy and free, his friends his fortune share,
Ev'n travelling strangers find a welcome there;
Neighbours, domesticks, all enjoy their parts,
He in return possesses all their hearts.

Who, foolish Corvus, who but thee will say,
That Comes idly throws his wealth away?

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Is then the noble privilege to give,
The sole advantage we from wealth receive!
Whilst others wants or merits we supply,
Have we ourselves no title to enjoy?
Doubtless you have. A thousand different ways
Wealth may be self-enjoy'd, and all with praise.
Whom truth and reason guides, or genius fires,
Never need fear indulging his desires.
But shou'd pretending coxcombs, from this rule,
Plead equal privilege to play the fool;
The muse forbids. She only gives to sense
The dangerous province to contrive expence.
Marcus in sumptuous buildings takes delight,
His house, his gardens charm the ravish'd sight:
With beauty use, with grandeur neatness joins,
And order with magnificence combines.
'Tis costly: True, but who can blame th' expence,
“Where splendor borrows all her rays from sense?

Sylvio retirement loves; smooth crystal floods,
Green meadows, hills and dales, and verdant woods
Delight his eye; the warbling birds to hear,
With rapture fills his soul, and charms his ear.
In shady walks, in groves, in secret bowers,
Plan'd by himself, he spends the peaceful hours:
Here serious thought pursues her thread serene,
No interrupting follies intervene;
Propitious silence aids th' attentive mind,
The God of nature in his works to find.

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If this t' enjoy affords him most delight,
Who says that Sylvio is not in the right?

Publius in curious paintings wealth consumes,
The best, the finest hands adorn his rooms;
Various designs, from each enliven'd wall,
Meet the pleas'd eyes, and something charms in all.
Here well-drawn landskips to the mind convey
A smiling country, or a stormy sea;
Towns, houses, trees, diversify the plain,
And ships in danger fright us from the main.
There the past actions of illustrious men,
In strong description charm the world agen:
Love, anger, grief, in different scenes are wrought,
All its just passions animate the draught.
But see new charms break in a flood of day,
See Loves and Graces on the canvas play;
Beauty's imagin'd smiles our bosom warm,
And light and shade retains the power to charm.

Who censures Publius, or condemns his cost,
Must wish the noble art of painting lost.

Whilst Publius thus his taste in painting shews,
Critus admires her sister art, the muse.
Homer and Virgil, Horace and Boileau
Teach in his breast poetick warmth to glow.
From these instructed, and from these inspir'd.
Critus for taste and judgment is admir'd.
Poets before him lay the work of years,
And from his sentence draw their hopes and fears.

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Hail, judge impartial! noble critick, hail!
In this thy day, good writing must prevail:
Our bards from you will hence be what they shou'd,
Please and improve us, make us wise and good.

Thus bless'd with wealth, his genius each pursues,
In building, planting, painting, or the muse.
O envy'd power!—But you'll object and say,
How few employ it in this envy'd way?
With all his heaps did Chremes e'er do good?
No: But they give him power, if once he wou'd:
'Tis not in riches to create the will,
Misers, in spite of wealth, are misers still,
Is it for gold the lawless villian spoils?
'Tis for the same the honest lab'rer toils.
Does wealth to sloth, to luxury pervert?
Wealth too excites to industry, to art:
Many, no doubt, thro' power of wealth oppress,
But some, whom heaven reward, delight to bless!
Then blame not gold, that men are proud or vain,
Slothful or covetous; but blame the man.
When right affections rule a generous heart,
Gold may refine, but seldom will pervert.