 | Miscellaneous poems |  |
99
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE RIVAL-GENERALS, A TRAGEDY.
By the Same.
Nor Friendship's sacred Call the Muse obeys,
Nor Flattery tunes these tributary Lays;
Thy Merit only from a conscious Mind,
Extorts a Praise, exalted and refin'd.
Nor Flattery tunes these tributary Lays;
Thy Merit only from a conscious Mind,
Extorts a Praise, exalted and refin'd.
100
To rob aspiring Virtue of its Name,
Its Glory stifle, or suppress its Fame;
Nay, ev'n with faintly praising to dispense,
Proclaims our Envy, or our want of Sense.
Its Glory stifle, or suppress its Fame;
Nay, ev'n with faintly praising to dispense,
Proclaims our Envy, or our want of Sense.
To make each sympathizing Bosom glow,
To make each Eye with gen'rous Pity flow,
To make the list'ning Youth in Anguish melt,
And Virgins sigh for Pains they never felt;
The buskin'd Muse upon the Stage appears,
And takes her Tribute of Applause in Tears.
To make each Eye with gen'rous Pity flow,
To make the list'ning Youth in Anguish melt,
And Virgins sigh for Pains they never felt;
The buskin'd Muse upon the Stage appears,
And takes her Tribute of Applause in Tears.
How much of this thy labour'd Work has won,
How much it speaks Thee Pæan's darling Son,
When I would sing; I mourn my baffled Scheme,
Nor can the Song rise equal to the Theme.
None but your self, none but your Lines are fit
To shew the Strength and Beauty of your Wit:
None but your own Pathetick Muse can show
How well you make our Passions ebb and flow.
Who sees thy brave Honorio's hapless State,
Great in his Fall, and glorious in his Fate?
Who hears thy mournful Eloisa's Moan?
Who views their Sorrows, and can stop his own?
When Sygismunda weeps, in tender Strains,
We share her Griefs, and struggle with her Pains;
Each Bosom feels her agonizing Throes,
And sickens with imaginary Woes.
But single Parts afford a weak Delight,
When the Whole shines so excellently bright.
How much it speaks Thee Pæan's darling Son,
When I would sing; I mourn my baffled Scheme,
Nor can the Song rise equal to the Theme.
None but your self, none but your Lines are fit
To shew the Strength and Beauty of your Wit:
None but your own Pathetick Muse can show
How well you make our Passions ebb and flow.
101
Great in his Fall, and glorious in his Fate?
Who hears thy mournful Eloisa's Moan?
Who views their Sorrows, and can stop his own?
When Sygismunda weeps, in tender Strains,
We share her Griefs, and struggle with her Pains;
Each Bosom feels her agonizing Throes,
And sickens with imaginary Woes.
But single Parts afford a weak Delight,
When the Whole shines so excellently bright.
Contemn those Fools who nibble at thy Thoughts,
And think all Wit consists in finding Faults;
Despise their Censure, and defy their Spite;
Such awkward Criticks shew Thee in the right.
Such slender Witlings, of Opinion full,
Such plodding Pedants, venerably dull,
Ne'r hope to please; 'tis shooting in the Dark,
And ev'n to do it is to miss the Mark.
And think all Wit consists in finding Faults;
Despise their Censure, and defy their Spite;
Such awkward Criticks shew Thee in the right.
Such slender Witlings, of Opinion full,
Such plodding Pedants, venerably dull,
Ne'r hope to please; 'tis shooting in the Dark,
And ev'n to do it is to miss the Mark.
102
Long had our Stage on foreign Refuse fed,
To a proud Mistress bow'd her servile Head;
Her Leavings treasur'd up, and curs'd the Land
With broken Scraps of Wit, at second Hand:
While not one Muse arose in our Defence,
Spoke our Resentment, or proclaim'd our Sense:
With scarce one native Note our Island rung;
Her Bards untuneful, and her Harp unstrung.
By you her Home-born Rage she now displays,
Inspir'd to merit independent Praise.
To a proud Mistress bow'd her servile Head;
Her Leavings treasur'd up, and curs'd the Land
With broken Scraps of Wit, at second Hand:
While not one Muse arose in our Defence,
Spoke our Resentment, or proclaim'd our Sense:
With scarce one native Note our Island rung;
Her Bards untuneful, and her Harp unstrung.
By you her Home-born Rage she now displays,
Inspir'd to merit independent Praise.
But let me boast, I first essay'd to sing,
Artless of Voice; and impotent of Wing,
On comick Pinions humble Flights explor'd,
Trifled in Song, nor to the Buskin soar'd.
You swiftly flew, o'ertook me in the Race,
Whilst gladly I retire, and give Thee Place:
To better Hands resign my Country's Cause,
And testify my Zeal by my Applause.
I yield the Crown, and thence extract my Praise,
Where Phœbus points, who dare deny the Bays?
Artless of Voice; and impotent of Wing,
On comick Pinions humble Flights explor'd,
Trifled in Song, nor to the Buskin soar'd.
You swiftly flew, o'ertook me in the Race,
Whilst gladly I retire, and give Thee Place:
To better Hands resign my Country's Cause,
And testify my Zeal by my Applause.
103
Where Phœbus points, who dare deny the Bays?
The Morning Star thus faintly gilds the Skies,
Dispels the Gloom, and shews Aurora's Rise;
But soon o'erpower'd, he hides his feeble Ray,
Lost in the Glory of the op'ning Day.
Dispels the Gloom, and shews Aurora's Rise;
But soon o'erpower'd, he hides his feeble Ray,
Lost in the Glory of the op'ning Day.
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