Epistle, An

Rare, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year;
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me ere you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same,
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire.
Not as when, urg'd by your desire, I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treachery to rehearse,
'Till statesmen trembled at the impending verse.
To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine;
The silent arts of poetry are mine:
And when some striking thought affects my mind,
I rest not till to paper 't s consign'd;
There, with a parent's fondness, I behold
My child, escap'd from Memory's treach'rous hold;
And smooth'd in verse, and harmoniz'd in rhyme,
I dream 'tis plac'd beyond the reach of time:
The torrent bears, my genius points the way;
I feel the impulse, and with joy obey.
Yet vanity did ne'er allure to fame;
I had no fondness for an author's name:
My works, like bastards, dropp'd about the town;
No author claim'd, no bookseller would own.
Ambition had no beauty in my eyes,
Verses like mine would hardly make me rise;
For every statesman hates poetic blows,
Tho' heavy on the shoulders of their foes;
And doubtful where the satire may point next,
They laugh, they fear, like, hate, are pleas'd, and vex'd.
'Twas your desire (perhaps your flattery too);
My verse, my fame (if any) springs from you:
And here I pay my tribute where 'tis due.
Your smiles were all my vanity requir'd,
Your nod was all the fame that I desir'd;
All my ambition was to gain your praise,
And all my pleasure you alone to please.
Yet Prudence will be whispering in my ear;—
A croaking voice that I detest to hear;
Whom anxious Thought preceding still we find,
And Plenty with her niggard horn behind;—
‘Why would you write (she says)? forsake the Muse;
Despise her gifts, her influence refuse;
To me in all thy life for once attend,
Prudence to parts would prove an useful friend:
I know your wants, and offer you my aid,
Which still you shun, contemptuous and afraid.
Pleas'd with the praise some partial few may give,
The hate and envy of the rest you live;
Write rashly on, regardless whom you hit,
And yield to satire, when impell'd by wit.’
‘Cease, goddess, cease (I cry), I'll hear no more,
I've ever been a rebel to thy power;
Your caution's right, your arguments are true,
Th' advice is good, but 'tis unpleasant too:
Vain are your toils, and fruitless is your aid,
Whene'er you strive to change what Nature made.
Turn to your altars, on your votaries shine:
See Pelham, ever kneeling at thy shrine;
Thro' you at first by slow degrees he rose,
To you the zenith of his power he owes.
You taught him in your middle way to steer,
Impartial, candid, moderate, to appear;
Fearful of enmity, to friendship cold,
Cautiously frank, and timorously bold;
And so observant, never to offend
A foe, he quite forgets to fix a friend.
Long vers'd in politics, but poor in parts,
The courtier's tricks, but not the statesman's arts;
His smile obedient to his purpose still,
Some dirty compromise his utmost skill;
In vain his own penurious soil he till'd,
In vain he glean'd from Walpole's plenteous field,
In vain th' exchequer robes around him flow,
The mantle does not make the prophet now.
‘Behind him close behold Newcastle's grace,
Haste in his step, and absence in his face,
Who daily suppliant to thy temple goes,
And courts thee, goddess, as he courts his foes;
Yet, spite of all thy influence, all thy care,
His prudence always deviates into fear.
His natural gifts so low, he strives in vain
To claim a height that dulness can attain;
Which Rushout reach'd with long opposing tired,
On which thy favourite Wilmington expired;
Where pliant Dorset sits, and long has sate,
Secure from changes, and the storms of state.
‘But arbitrary Fortune (who derides
Whate'er Experience frames, or Wisdom guides;
Without whose smiles, all Honour, Virtue, Worth,
Still plead in vain) presided at his birth.
Newcastle then (and yet a child,) she blest,
And rapt'rous these prophetic truths exprest:
“Tho' void of honesty, of sense, or art,
“A foolish head, and a perfidious heart,
“Yet riches, honours, power, he shall enjoy,
“Parties shall follow, monarchs shall employ:
“Great Britain's seal be to his hand consign'd,
“The ducal coronet his temples bind:
“He shall betray and lie, but all in vain,
“Spite of himself his posts he shall maintain:
“No changes shall involve my favourite's fall;
“He'll join the current, and be all to all,
“Let him but keep his outside show of power,
“He'll act with Orford, Granville, Bath, or Gower.”
‘Prudence, howe'er you smile, howe'er are kind,
Thy vot'ries ne'er are leaders of mankind:
Unfit to govern England's restive realm,
She asks a genius to conduct her helm,
That dares forsake thy paths, offend thy law,
Unaw'd by all the phantoms that you draw.
‘Thy favourites should to Switzerland repair,
And gently rule some peaceful canton there;
Or in the neutral Adriatic state
With her inactive senators debate.
Think how thy Pelham would in Lucca shine!
And Sandys be in Marino styl'd divine!
There let them shine; but Britain's reins demand
An Orford's, or at least a Granville's, hand.
‘Hence, goddess, to such supplicants repair,
Who make thy narrow rules their only care,
Whose utmost aim is barely to do well,
Taught by thy precepts never to excell:
Here I renounce thee—fly thy outstretch'd arms,
And own the Muse's more prevailing charms.
And why not own them? can't her power remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love,
Blunt pain's keen edge, unload the weight of care,
Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?
Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Tun'd my disordered mind and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
‘Nor can she only give affliction ease;
Pleasure is hers, and hers the power to please:
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And every fair one owns the Muse's power.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley approve, and Harrington commend?
Has not my verse o'er Celia's frown prevail'd?
The poet triumph'd where the poet fail'd.
‘But further still her wide command is shewn,
Immortal fame attends on her alone.
In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The hero conquers, and the statesman toils;
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die:
She bids them live, and, from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the time to come.
‘'Tis by her influence too, her sons survive,
And more than share the vast renown they give;
Still round the goddess different laurels grow,
To crown the hero and the poet too:
And while posterity with rapture reads
Æneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds;
Beyond all piety, all feats of arms,
'Tis Virgil pleases, and 'tis Homer charms.
Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest satire waits upon her lays.
Virtue and vice are both within her view;
She can reward; but she can punish too:
And from her just revenge and slighted power,
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartre's shame,
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men:—
Pelham, read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few, whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my song, and still approve my strain;
I dread their censure, but th' applause they give
I feel; for they can judge, but not deceive.
‘Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac'd,
When I repeated, thought the moments long,
Friend to the poet, partial to his song?
When Winnington, fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares,
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight.
But while I mention him, all flattery hence:—
'Twould wrong our friendship, and 'twould wrong his sense.
In him we find unite what rarely meet,
Parts join'd to application, sense with wit;
A piercing eye, a countenance erect,
Quick to invent, judicious to correct;
Warm to attack, but warmer to defend,
The fairest foe, and the sincerest friend:
Above the intrigues and windings of a court,
Acknowledged merit is his one support.
His converse, new and just delight affords,
Rich in the brightest thoughts and aptest words;
Whene'er he speaks, his audience still is charm'd,
Taught by his sense, and by his spirit warm'd.
[‘But Orford's self I've seen whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod the approving head.
Pardon, great shade, if duteous on thy hearse
I hang my grateful tributary verse;
If I, who follow'd thro' thy various day,
Thy glorious zenith and thy bright decay,
Now strew thy tomb with flowers, and o'er thy urn
With England, Liberty, and Envy, mourn,
His soul was great, and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel:
Above the thirst of gold, if in his heart
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,
Where Prudence sees no track, nor ever strays,
Which books and schools in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious Art can never reach;
Falsehood and flattery, and the tricks of court,
He left to statesmen of a meaner sort;
Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice, which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth, that held them in disdain.
Open to friends, but e'en to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear:
Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss he heard;
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd;
Calmly he view'd them, conscious that his ends
Were right, and truth and innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please:
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame: admir'd in every state;
In private amiable, in public great;
Gentle in power, but daring in disgrace,
His love was liberty, his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays:
And what can heighten thought or genius raise,
Like praise from him, whom all mankind must praise?
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surprised;
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despised.]
Here then I rest: and since it is decreed
The pleasing paths of poetry to tread,
Hear me, O Muse; receive one poet more,
Consenting bend, and pour down all thy store;
No longer constant round Parnassus rove,
But change the scene and smile on Coldbrook's grove.
Here too are limpid streams, here oaks their shade
O'er mossy turf more soft than slumbers spread.
Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along;
But, above all, let Truth attend my song.
So shall my verse still please the man I love,
Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox approve.’
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.