And Epistle To The Right Hon. George Lord Lansdowne.

1712.

Parnassia laurus

Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.

VIRG.

When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone,

And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone,

While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state

Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate;

Horace did oft the mighty man detain,

And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain;

Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string;

And taught the Roman genius how to sing.

Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,

Who know no want of C'sar, finding you;

The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press

Through circling crowds, and labor for access,

That partial to his darling he may prove,

And shining throngs for her reproach remove,

To all the world industrious to proclaim

His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame.

Long has the western world reclin'd her head,

Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead;

Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd,

And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd;

By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd;

Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd.

In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd,

In vain the vintage liberally flow'd;

Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd,

And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste;

The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring,

The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring;

Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear,

Not by the various aspects of the year;

The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky,

And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh.

But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen,

When such as you are near her glorious queen!)

Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last,

And bids us smile on all our labours past;

Bids every nation cease her wonted moan,

And every monarch call his crown his own:

To valour gentler virtues now succeed;

No longer is the great man born to bleed;

Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell,

Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell:

Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame,

And without trembling we resound his name.

No more the rising harvest whets the sword,

No longer waves uncertain of its lord;

Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim,

Nor chance of battle change the master's name.

Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows;

The brighter sun a fuller day bestows;

All nature seems to wear a cheerful face,

And thank great Anna for returning peace.

The patient thus, when on his bed of pain,

No longer he invokes the gods in vain,

But rises to new life; in every field

He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield;

Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please,

And borrow beauties from his late disease.

Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace,

As more than bids the rage of battle cease.

Death may determine war, and rest succeed,

'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed:

In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes,

And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose.

See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance,

Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France;

So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home,

(Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon's stately dome;

The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne,

Will not that Anna call him all her own;

He claims a part, and looking round to find

Something might speak the fulness of his mind,

A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near,

Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear;

Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one,

Who makes him less regret his darling son;

So dear is Anna's minister, so great,

Your glorious friend in his own private state.

To make our nations longer two, in vain

Does nature interpose the raging main:

The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows,

For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows:

From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find,

And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd;

Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love,

And former injuries endearments prove.

What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword,

That cause of fear to Churchill could afford?

Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame

Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame?

Thus generous hatred in affection ends,

And war, which rais'd the foes, completes the friends.

A thousand happy consequences flow

(The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow);

Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll

Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole;

The British merchant, who with care and pain

For many moons sees only skies and main;

When now in view of his loved native shore,

The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er,

Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find,

Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind;

By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe,

And give him strength to strike a deeper blow.

Sweet Philomela providently flies

To distant woods and streams, for such supplies,

To feed her young, and make them try the wing,

And with their tender notes attempt to sing:

Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare,

And renders vain the tuneful mother's care.

Britannia's bold adventurer of late

The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate.

Goodness is greatness in its utmost height,

And power a curse, if not a friend to right:

To conquer is to make dissension cease,

That man may serve the King of kings in peace.

Religion now shall all her rays dispense,

And shine abroad in perfect excellence;

Else we may dread some greater curse at hand,

To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land:

Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest;

The meagre famine, and the spotted pest,

Deputed in her stead, may blast the day,

And sweep the relics of the sword away.

When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne,

Jove in the fulness of his glory shone;

Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword,

Was born to raise a temple to the Lord.

Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile

Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle.

Those mighty souls, whom military care

Diverted from their only great affair,

Shall bend their full united force, to bless

Th' Almighty Author of their late success.

And what is all the world subdued to this?

The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss;

But there are conquests to great Anna known,

Above the splendour of an earthly throne;

Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within

The scanty bounds of matter to begin;

Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run

Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun,

And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun.

Heroic shades! whom war has swept away,

Look down, and smile on this auspicious day:

Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell,

Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;

Then deep into eternity retire,

Of greater things than peace or war inquire;

Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know

What farther passes in the world below.

The bravest of mankind shall now have leave

To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave:

On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet

Sad melancholy numbers in each street

(Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain,

Or wasting in the bottom of the main);

To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,

Lest it an insult of their woes appear,

And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood

Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food.

Devotion shall run pure, and disengage

From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage.

On heaven without a sin we now may call,

And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;

Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath

Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.

But O! I view with transport arts restor'd,

Which double use to Britain shall afford;

Secure her glory purchas'd in the field,

And yet for future peace sweet motives yield:

While we contemplate on the painted wall,

The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul,

In such bright images, such living grace,

As leave great Raphael but the second place;

Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise,

And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;

Much we shall triumph in our battles past,

And yet consent those battles prove our last;

Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive,

We lose the means to keep that fame alive.

In silent groves the birds delight to sing,

Or near the margin of a secret spring:

Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve,

Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string,

Or breathing canvass, when the muses sing?

The muse, my lord, your care above the rest,

With rising joy dilates my partial breast;

The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,

Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar;

Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead,

And all her warlike neighbours round her bled;

For Janus shut, her I' P'ans rung,

Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.

A thousand various forms the muse may wear,

(A thousand various forms become the fair;)

But shines in none with more majestic mien,

Than when in state she draws the purple scene;

Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage,

And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage;

Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use

The noblest virtues time did e'er produce;

Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind;

They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd,

Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks

The hero's presence deep impression makes;

The scenes his soul and body reunite,

Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight;

Make our contemporary him that stood

High in renown, perhaps before the flood;

Make Nestor to this age advice afford,

And Hector for our service draw his sword.

More glory to an author what can bring,

Whence nobler service to his country spring,

Than from those labours, which, in man's despight,

Possess him with a passion for the right?

With honest magic make the knave inclin'd

To pay devotion to the virtuous mind;

Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove,

And with her wants and anguish fall in love?

Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan,

And does not wish the glorious pain his own?

Lend but your understanding, and their skill

Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will:

Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past;

Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast.

How often have I seen the generous bowl

With pleasing force unlock a secret soul,

And steal a truth, which every sober hour

(The prose of life) had kept within her power!

The grape victorious often has prevail'd,

When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd:

Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd,

She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd;

But mourn'd too late, no longer could deny,

And on her own confession charge the lie.

Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love

Of goodness here, or mercy from above,

Or fear of future pains, or human laws

Could render advocates in virtue's cause,

Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd

Their wonted disposition of the mind:

By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale,

As circling glasses on our senses steal;

Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd,

The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd,

They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,

Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,

Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring,

Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king.

How can they cool to villains? how subside

To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride?

To spoiling orphans how to day return,

Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn?

In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit

To govern, and control the world of wit,

As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known?

Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own;

He in the lap of elegance was bred,

And trac'd the muses to their fountain head:

But much we hope, he will enjoy at home

What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.

Nor fear I mention of the court of France,

When I the British genius would advance;

There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste;

Yet still we dare invite him to our feast:

For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress

Of Oroonoko, and presume him less:

What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe

Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.

Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse,

The drama glories in the British muse.

The French are delicate, and nicely lead

Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;

Our genius more affects the grand, than fine,

Our strength can make the great plain action shine:

They raise a great curiosity indeed,

From his dark maze to see the hero freed;

We rouse th' affections, and that hero show

Gasping beneath some formidable blow:

They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care

We heighten into terror and despair;

Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch,

Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much.

What's great in nature we can greatly draw,

Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.

The fate of C'sar is a tale too plain

The fickle Gallic taste to entertain;

Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove

The golden arras with gay flowers of love:

We know heaven made him a far greater man

Than any C'sar, in a human plan,

And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd,

To stand affected with what heaven design'd.

To claim attention, and the heart invade,

Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made.

Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays,

'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise;

On nature's surer aid Britannia calls,

None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls;

Then with a sigh returns our audience home,

From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome.

France yields not to the glory of our lines,

But manly conduct of our strong designs;

That oft they think more justly we must own,

Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown:

Greece thought but justly, they think justly too;

We sometimes err by striving more to do.

So well are Racine's meanest persons taught,

But change a sentiment, you make a fault;

Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame:

When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame.

And yet in Shakespeare something still I find,

That makes me less esteem all human kind;

He made one nature, and another found,

Both in his page with master strokes abound:

His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle.

Bid us no longer at our nurses smile;

Of lost historians we almost complain,

Nor think it the creation of his brain.

Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance?

With his great Talbot(62) too he conquer'd France.

Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run

In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one;

And him, my lord, permit me not to name,

But in kind silence spare his rival's shame:--

Yet I in vain that author would suppress,

What can't be greater, cannot be made less:

Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,

And to himself great Agamemnon name.

Should Shakespeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile,

E'en Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle:

But if that reigning star propitious shine,

And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine;

E'en I, by far the meanest of your age,

Shall not repent my passion for the stage.

Thus did the will almighty disallow,

No human force could pluck the golden bough,

Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command,

And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand.

Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write

To you, the muses' glory and delight;

Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,

And mortify an author with your praise:

Praise wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due,

But censure's self will please, my lord, from you;

Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend

To point them out, and teach us how to mend.

What though the great man set his coffers wide,

That cannot gratify the poet's pride;

Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good,

Is best rewarded, when best understood.

The muses write for glory, not for gold,

'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold:

The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves

To speak a sense of what the muse deserves;

The muse which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong,

Best judge, as well as subject, of her song.

Should this great theme allure me further still,

And I presume to use your patience ill,

The world would plead my cause, and none but you

Will take disgust at what I now pursue:

Since what is mean my muse can't raise, I'll choose

A theme that's able to exalt my muse.

For who, not void of thought, can Granville name,

Without a spark of his immortal flame?

Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend,

Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend;

Whether we choose to love or to admire,

You melt the tender, and th'ambitious fire.

Such native graces without thought abound,

And such familiar glories spread around,

As more incline the stander by to raise

His value for himself, than you to praise.

Thus you befriend the most heroic way,

Bless all, on none an obligation lay;

So turn'd by nature's hand for all that's well,

'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel.

Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien,

You to be happy want not to be seen;

Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone,

Nor court an approbation but your own:

In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze

In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please;

You, were all blind, would still deserve applause;

The world's your glory's witness, not its cause;

That lies beyond the limits of the day,

Angels behold it, and their God obey.

You take delight in others' excellence;

A gift, which nature rarely does dispense:

Of all that breathe 'tis you, perhaps, alone

Would be well pleas'd to see yourself outdone.

You wish not those, who show your name respect,

So little worth, as might excuse neglect;

Nor are in pain lest merit you should know;

Nor shun the well deserver as a foe;

A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim

To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame.

You wish your country's good; that told so well

Your powers are known, th' event I need not tell.

When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd;

That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd:

And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought,

Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought.

When you, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat,

No crowds around for pleasure, or for state,

You are not cast upon a stranger land,

And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;

Nor are you by receiv'd example taught,

In toys to shun the discipline of thought;

But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place,

You choose companions from all human race;

Converse with those the deluge swept away,

Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day.

Books not so much inform, as give consent

To those ideas your own thoughts present;

Your only gain from turning volumes o'er,

Is finding cause to like yourself the more:

In Grecian sages you are only taught

With more respect to value your own thought:

Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew

Those precepts we behold alive in you:

Your life is so adjusted to their schools,

It makes that history they meant for rules.

What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise

Within your breast, and lift you to the skies,

When, in each learned page that you unfold,

You find some part of your own conduct told!

So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, 'neas stood,

And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood,

When far from Trojan shores the hero spied

His story shining forth in all its pride;

Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand

The praise and wonder of a foreign land.

He knows not half his being, who's confin'd

In converse, and reflection on mankind:

Your soul, which understands her charter well,

Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell;

Ranges eternity without the leave

Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave.

When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,

When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss,

In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend,

And for your ease to deathless fame descend.

Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand,

Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.(63)

Behold the glories of your life complete!

Still at a flow, and permanently great;

New moments shed new pleasures as they fly,

And yet your greatest is, that you must die.

Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat

Of honour, and confess'd her servant great;

Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful fame

Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name;

Though you in modesty the title wear,

Your name shall be the title of your heir;

Farther than ermine, make his glory known,

And cast in shades the favour of a throne.

From thrones the beam of high distinction springs;

The soul's endowments from the King of kings,

Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers!

Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years;

Anna, be thou content to fix the fate

Of various kingdoms, and control the great;

But O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine!

To him that great prerogative resign,

Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher,

His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire.

Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear,

A darling friend whom near your heart you wear;

That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame,

That I grow thus familiar with your name.

He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice,

Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice:

Vice has he none, or such as none wish less,

But friends indeed, good-nature in excess.

You cannot boast the merit of a choice,

In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice,

Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,

Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood;

Similitude of manners, such a mind

As makes you less the wonder of mankind.

Such ease his common converse recommends,

As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's;

Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force

Of all beneath the sun, to bend his course.(64)

Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair,

Flatters the motions of the wanton air;

Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd:

The pliant branches dance in every wind:

But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains,

And all the fury of the north disdains.

How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend!

Alas! with me the joys of friendship end;

O Harrison! I must, I will complain;

Tears soothe the soul's distress, tho' shed in vain;

Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore

With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?--

Thy task was early done, and I must own

Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.

But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,

The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn;

Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive,

They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave.

With aching heart, and a foreboding mind,

I night to day in painful journey join'd,

When first inform'd of his approaching fate;

But reach'd the partner of my soul too late:

'Twas past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue,

Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song,

Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain,

Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again:

Each art of life, in which he bore a part,

Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart.

To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,

But more to load that most unhappy hour?

Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind;

That, not in health, or life itself confin'd,

Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace,

Mounted to joy, and smil'd in death's embrace.

His spirit now just ready to resign,

No longer now his own, no longer mine,

He grasps my hand, his swimming eyeballs roll,

My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul:

Then with a groan--Support me, O! beware

Of holding worth, however great, too dear!(65)

Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief,

That in untimely freedom seeks relief;

To better fate your love I recommend,

O! may you never lose so dear a friend!

May nothing interrupt your happy hours;

Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers:

Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn;

To make the muse immortal, you was born.

Sing; and in latest time, when story's dark,

This period your surviving fame shall mark;

Save from the gulf of years this glorious age,

And thus illustrate their historian's page.

The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung,

And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung:

That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword,

When this great man was first saluted lord.

62 An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.--Young.

63 See his lordship's tragedy entitled "Heroic Love." --Young.

64 His lordship's nephew, who took orders.--Young.

65 The author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of New-College, Oxon.--Young. [See a more particular account of him in the Supplement to Swift.]