« FöregåendeFortsätt »
With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay ;
To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead; The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet; The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake, Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn; See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend; See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs ! For thee Idame's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heav'o its sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day. No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unelouded blaze O’erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains ; Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns !
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
Is there a parson much be-mus'd in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross ? Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? All fly to Twit'nam, 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 dama'd 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? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped ; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd 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 pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
*Nine years! cries he, who, high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig'd 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 libelld 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. Fird 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,'
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) His very minister who spied them first (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, à sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
things ; I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, 'Tis nothing.-P. Nothing ! if they bite and kick? Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, That secret to each fool, that he's an ass: The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie ?) The queen of Midas slept, and so may I.
You think this cruel? take it for a rule
One dedicates in high heroic prose,