TO MR. DRYDEN,

ON HIS

TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS.

As when of old heroick story tells

Of knights imprison'd long by magick spells,
Till future time the deftin'd hero fend
By whom the dire enchantment is to end;
Such feems this work, and fo referv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poefy!

Those fullen clouds which have for ages paft
O er Perfius' too longfuff'ring Muse been caft,
Disperse and fly before thy facred pen,

And in their room bright tracks of light are seen. 10
Sure Phœbus' felf thy fwelling breast infpires,
The god of mufick and poetick fires;

Elfe whence proceeds this great surprise of light?
How dawns this day forth from the womb of Night?
Our wonder now does our paft folly show,
Vainly contemning what we did not know:
So unbelievers impiously despise

The Sacred Oracles in mysteries.
Perfius before in fmall efteem was had,
Unless what to Antiquity is paid;
But like Apocrypha, with scruple read,
(So far our ignorance our faith misled)

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Till you, Apollo's darling priest, thought fit
To place it in the poet's facred writ,

As coin which bears fome awful monarch's face 25
For more than its intrinfick worth will pass,
So your bright image, which we here behold,
Adds worth to worth, and dignifies the gold.
To you we all this following treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a rock did flow. 30
Old Stoick virtue, clad in rugged lines,
Polish'd by you, in modern brilliant fhines;
And as before for Perfius our efteem
To his antiquity was paid, not him;
So now, whatever praise from us is due,
Belongs not to old Perfius, but the new;
For ftill obfcure, to us no light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.

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So ftubborn flints their inward heat conceal, Till art and force th' unwilling fparks reveal;

But, thro' your skill, from thöfe fmall feeds of fire Bright flames arife, which never can expire.

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TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

OCCASIONED BY LY'S PICTURE.

I YIELD, O Kneller! to fuperiour skill,
Thy pencil triumphs o'er the poet's quill:
If yet my vanquish'd Mufe exert her lays,
It is no more to rival thee, but praife.

Oft' have I try'd, with unavailing care,
To trace fome image of the much-lov'd fair,
But ftill my numbers ineffectual prov'd,

And rather show'd how much, than whom, I lov'd;
But thy unerring hands, with matchlefs art,

Have shown my eyes th' impreffion in my heart; 10
The bright idea both exifts and leaves,

Such vital heat thy genial pencil gives,

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Whofe daring point, not to the face confin'd,
Can penetrate the heart, and paint the mind.
Others fome faint refemblance may express,
Which as 't is drawn by chance we find by guefs:
Thy pictures raise no doubts when brought to view;
At once they 're known, and feem to know us too.
Tranfcendent Artift! how complete thy skill!

Thy pow'r to act is equal to thy will:
Nature and Art in thee alike contend,
Not to oppofe each other, but befriend;
For what thy fancy has with fire defign'd,
Is by thy skill both temper'd and refin'd.

C

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As in thy pictures light confents with fhade,
And each to other is fubfervient made,
Judgment and genius fo concur in thee,
And both unite in perfect harmony.

But after-days, my Friend! must do thee right, And fet thy virtues in unenvy'd light.

Fame due to vaft defert is kept in store,
Unpaid till the deferver is no more;

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Yet thou in present the best part haft gain'd,

And from the chosen few applause obtain❜d:

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Ev'n he who beft could judge and best could praife,
Has high extoll'd thee in his deathless lays:
Ev'n Dryden has immortaliz'd thy name;
Let that alone fuffice thee, think that fame;
Unfit I follow where he led the

way,

And court applause by what I seem to pay:
Myfelf I praise while I thy praise intend,
For 'tis fome virtue virtue to commend;

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And next to deeds which our own honour raise,
Is to distinguish them who merit praise.

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TO SIR RICHARD TEMPLE.

OF PLEASING.

is ftrange, dear Temple! how it comes to pass
That no one man is pleas'd with what he has :
So Horace fings and sure as strange is this,
That no one man's difpleas'd with what he is.
The foolish, ugly, dull, inpertinent,

Are with their perfons and their parts content.
Nor is that all; fo odd a thing is man,

He moft would be what least he should or can.
Hence homely faces still are foremost feen,
And cross-fhap'd fops affect the nicest mien;
Cowards extol true courage to the skies,
And fools are ftill most forward to advise;
Th' untrusted wretch to fecrecy pretends,
Whifp'ring his nothing round to all as friends;
Dull rogues affect the politician's part,

And learn to nod, and smile, and fhrug, with art;
Who nothing has to lose the war bewails,
And he who nothing pays at taxes rails.

Thus man, perverse, against plain Nature strives,
And to be artfully abfurd contrives.
Plautus will dance, Lufcus at ogling aims,

Old Tritus keeps, and undone Probus games:
Noifome Curculio, whofe envenom❜d breath,
Tho' at a distance utter'd, threatens death,

ΤΟ

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