Part 35 (2/2)
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 Oth.e.l.lo'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 s.h.i.+ne, And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine; E'en I, by far the meanest of your age, Shall not repent my pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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, aeneas stood, And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, When far from Trojan sh.o.r.es the hero spied His story s.h.i.+ning 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 pa.s.sage 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 t.i.tle wear, Your name shall be the t.i.tle 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 s.h.i.+ne!
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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sing 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.e 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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 ill.u.s.trate 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.
TWO EPISTLES TO MR. POPE
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