By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned. What though no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of wo, To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polished marble emulate thy face ?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb ? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be; Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou beloved no more,
FROM THE "EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT."
Shut, shut the door, good John,' fatigued I said; Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead! The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out :
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide ? 'They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner time. Is there a parson much be-mused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, fore-doomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross ? Is there who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? All fly to Twickenham, and in humble strain Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life, which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song,
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? O dire dilemma! either way I'm sped; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Siezed and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish and an aching head, And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' 'Nine years!' cries he, who, high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger and request of friends: 'The piece you think is incorrect? why take it, I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it.' Three things another's modest wishes bound; 'My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.' Pitholeon sends to me; you know his grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place. Pitholeon libelled me, 'But here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine! He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' Bless me! a packet. -' 'Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.
If I dislike it, 'Furies, death, and rage ;' If I approve, Commend it to the stage.' There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends; The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house rejects him, 'Sdeath, I'll print it, And shame the fools,-your interest, sir, with Lintot. Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much; 'Not, sir, if you revise it and retouch.' All my demurs but double his attacks ; At last he whispers, 'Do, and we go snacks.' Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more!
Why did I write? What sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink,-my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came : I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed: The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wit To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved to bear.
FROM "THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE."
In lonely dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground, And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.
Was nought around but images of rest, Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, And flowery beds that slumberous influence cast, From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled every where their waters sheen; That as they bickered through the sunny glade, Tho' restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
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