 | Poems on several occasions |  |
494
AN EPISTLE TO MY LORD OXFORD.
While me far off the present hours remove
From him I reverence and from her I love,
For writing ill-disposed and ill-prepared,
A wifeless husband, and a lordless bard,
What genial warmth my bosom can inspire,
As void of amorous as poetic fire?
What noble hints can helpless I pursue,
Who want a patron, and a mistress too?
From him I reverence and from her I love,
For writing ill-disposed and ill-prepared,
A wifeless husband, and a lordless bard,
What genial warmth my bosom can inspire,
As void of amorous as poetic fire?
What noble hints can helpless I pursue,
Who want a patron, and a mistress too?
Yet still some lays for Oxford must I find:
The gift he marks not, but the giver's mind;
The mind which gratitude to Harley shows
In verse, distinguish'd but by rhyme from prose.
For here no sign of poetry shall be,
If fiction be the soul of poetry.
Rather with punctual truths I'll fill my verse,
In mode of grave, unlying travellers:
How summer's weather usually is good;
How turnpikes mend, and waggons mar, the road;
How various windings tempt our steps astray,
Except, like hounds, we smell the doubtful way:
While guides themselves sometimes mistake it quite,
And seldom know their left hands from their right;
Till paths, through rational directors lost,
Are surely pointed by some wiser post.
Each man we meet with, differs in report,
The road still lengthening as the time grows short;
While computation all our hope beguiles;
For northern way-bits beat our southern miles.
Who would not fret, such crosses long to bear?
Who would not shake, to feel the' inclement air,
Did not strong ale, as far we journey on,
Supply the fervour of the distant sun?
The gift he marks not, but the giver's mind;
495
In verse, distinguish'd but by rhyme from prose.
For here no sign of poetry shall be,
If fiction be the soul of poetry.
Rather with punctual truths I'll fill my verse,
In mode of grave, unlying travellers:
How summer's weather usually is good;
How turnpikes mend, and waggons mar, the road;
How various windings tempt our steps astray,
Except, like hounds, we smell the doubtful way:
While guides themselves sometimes mistake it quite,
And seldom know their left hands from their right;
Till paths, through rational directors lost,
Are surely pointed by some wiser post.
Each man we meet with, differs in report,
The road still lengthening as the time grows short;
While computation all our hope beguiles;
For northern way-bits beat our southern miles.
Who would not fret, such crosses long to bear?
Who would not shake, to feel the' inclement air,
Did not strong ale, as far we journey on,
Supply the fervour of the distant sun?
But, more than ale, warmth to my heart it yields
To see glad plenty load the fruitful fields;
To hope that orphans yet again may eat,
Nor friendless widows quite despair of meat;
That Irish thousands, with oppression worn,
Who still survive their want, may taste of corn;
Nor step-dame earth to merchants now deny
A morsel of her grain, before they die;
That even clothiers may perhaps be fed,
And starving weavers gain a piece of bread.
Though Heaven in vain its bounty may bestow,
If intercepted by the gods below:
In vain may valleys smile with timely grain,
And crowded garners boast their hoards in vain,
If taxes' weight the sinking farmer grinds,
And want resistless threats the labouring hinds.
They pine for food which their own toil supplies:
The muzzled ox so looks with longing eyes,
And, while he treads the sheaves, with famine dies.
To see glad plenty load the fruitful fields;
To hope that orphans yet again may eat,
Nor friendless widows quite despair of meat;
That Irish thousands, with oppression worn,
Who still survive their want, may taste of corn;
Nor step-dame earth to merchants now deny
A morsel of her grain, before they die;
496
And starving weavers gain a piece of bread.
Though Heaven in vain its bounty may bestow,
If intercepted by the gods below:
In vain may valleys smile with timely grain,
And crowded garners boast their hoards in vain,
If taxes' weight the sinking farmer grinds,
And want resistless threats the labouring hinds.
They pine for food which their own toil supplies:
The muzzled ox so looks with longing eyes,
And, while he treads the sheaves, with famine dies.
Hence, gloomy thought and second-sighted care!
Spalding I view, and meet with Oxford there,
Where friendly minds in social bonds agree,
And politics exclude by policy;
Studious to search, since first their rise began,
Whate'er becomes the dignity of man;
Whate'er can knowledge to the soul impart,—
The ways of nature, and the works of art;
Of various trees the unexhausted store,
Herbs in the mead, and shells upon the shore;
Whate'er in life they worth remark behold,
Or trace in books the modern and the old;
Whate'er can creep or walk or swim or fly,
The deepest centre and the farthest sky.
Yet, to relax the bow so well they bend,
From physics down to music they descend;
And stoop sometimes from mathematics strong
To the light trifles of a poet's song.
But, what more justly must applauses gain
Than all the arts and sciences from Cain,
They strive to' advance good-will, as well as sense;
(Which learn'd Sir Richard styled “benevolence;”)
And well they execute that glorious aim,
As witness Oxford's honourable name.
Spalding I view, and meet with Oxford there,
Where friendly minds in social bonds agree,
And politics exclude by policy;
Studious to search, since first their rise began,
Whate'er becomes the dignity of man;
Whate'er can knowledge to the soul impart,—
The ways of nature, and the works of art;
Of various trees the unexhausted store,
Herbs in the mead, and shells upon the shore;
Whate'er in life they worth remark behold,
Or trace in books the modern and the old;
Whate'er can creep or walk or swim or fly,
The deepest centre and the farthest sky.
Yet, to relax the bow so well they bend,
From physics down to music they descend;
And stoop sometimes from mathematics strong
To the light trifles of a poet's song.
497
Than all the arts and sciences from Cain,
They strive to' advance good-will, as well as sense;
(Which learn'd Sir Richard styled “benevolence;”)
And well they execute that glorious aim,
As witness Oxford's honourable name.
If Harley, used to far sublimer strains,
This artless verse and humble voice disdains,
Let him the sign to other poets give,
Whose works to future age may hope to live.
His powerful nod can rouse the tuneful throng,
And call their sweetest numbers into song;
Bid heaven-born music cheer the listening glades,
When Fenton sings and blushes in his shades;
Bid humorous Gay in harmless fancy sport,
And please the good and fair, though not the court;
Bid Pope, harmonious, strike the' obedient lyre,
And make us less regret the loss of Prior.
This artless verse and humble voice disdains,
Let him the sign to other poets give,
Whose works to future age may hope to live.
His powerful nod can rouse the tuneful throng,
And call their sweetest numbers into song;
Bid heaven-born music cheer the listening glades,
When Fenton sings and blushes in his shades;
Bid humorous Gay in harmless fancy sport,
And please the good and fair, though not the court;
Bid Pope, harmonious, strike the' obedient lyre,
And make us less regret the loss of Prior.
| Poems on several occasions | |