DEAR SIR, TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ. HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARY OF STATE, I CANNOT wish that any of my writings should last longer than the memory of our friendship; and, therefore, I thus publicly bequeath them to you, in return for the many valuable instances of your affection. That they may come to you with as little disadvantage as possible, I have left the care of them to one', whom, by the experience of some years, I know well qualified to answer my intentions. He has already the honour and happiness of being under your protection; and, as he will very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better, than that he may continue to deserve the favour and countenance of such a patron. I have no time to lay out in forming such compliments, as would but ill suit that familiarity between us, which was once my greatest pleasure, and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept of my hearty wishes that the great reputation you have acquired so early may increase more and more: and that you may long serve your country with those excellent talents and unblemished integrity, which have so powerfully recommended you to the most gracious and amiable monarch that ever filled a throne. May the frankness and generosity of your spirit continue to soften and subdue your enemies, and gain you many friends, if possible, as sincere as yourself. When you have found such they cannot wish you more true happiness than I, who am, with the greatest zeal, dear sir, your most entirely affectionate friend, and faithful obedient servant, June 4, 1719. 'Mr. Tickell. J. ADDISON. POEMS OP JOSEPH ADDISON. Couplet TO MR. DRYDEN. HOW long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest, Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show How thy own laurel first began to grow: How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling thro' the woods. O may'st thou still the noble task prolong, Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song: Then may we wondering read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams; Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mold Turn'd yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold: How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a secondlife, and different natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell. Magd. College, Oxon. June 2, 1693. The author's age 22. A POEM TO HIS MAJESTY1. TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN SOMERS, LORD To you, my lord, these daring thoughts belong, On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait, And from your judgment must expect my fate, Who, free from vulgar passions, are above Degrading envy, or misguided love; If you, well pleas'd, shall smile upon my lays, TO THE KING. WHEN now the business of the field is o'er, 'King William. Others, in bold prophetic numbers skill'd, Set thee in arms, and led thee to the field; My Muse expecting on the British strand Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to land: She oft has seen thee pressing on the foe, When Europe was concern'd in every blow; But durst not in heroic strains rejoice; [voice: The trumpets, drums, and cannons, drown'd her She saw the Boyne run thick with human gore, And floating corps lie beating on the shore; She saw thee climb the banks, but try'd in vain To trace her hero through the dusty plain, When thro' the thick embattled lines he broke, Now plung'd amidst the foes, now lost in clouds of smoke. O that some Muse, renown'd for lofty verse, In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse! Draw thee belov'd in peace, and fear'd in wars, Inur'd to noon-day sweats, and midnight cares! But still the god-like man, by some hard fate, Receives the glory of his toils too late; Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds, One age the hero, one the poet breeds. A thousand years in full succession ran, Ere Virgil rais'd his voice, and sung the man Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers bore On stormy seas, and a disastrous shore, Before he settled in the promis'd earth, And gave the empire of the world its birth. They break through all, for William leads the way Thus when the forming Muse would copy forth Thy navy rides on seas before unprest, And strikes a terrour through the haughty east: run, And wish themselves still nearer to the sun. Troy long had found the Grecians bold and The Gallic ships are in their ports confin'd, fierce, Ere Homer muster'd up their troops in verse; The race of Nassau was by Heaven design'd Deny'd the common use of sea and wind, And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous flow'd. Spain's numerous fleet, that perish'd on our coast, Where-e'er the waves in restless er urs roll, At length, proud prince, ambitious Lewis, cease To plague mankind, and trouble Furope's peace; Think on the structures which thy pride has ras'd, On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid waste; Think on the heaps of corps and streams of blood, On every guilty plain and purple flood, Thy arms have made; and cease an impious war, Nor waste the lives entrusted to thy care. Behold with what resistless force he falls On towns besieg'd, and thunders at thy walls! Ask Villeroy, (for Villeroy beheld The town surrender'd, and the treaty seal'd) And executes his injur'd king's commands; With hissing streams of fire the air they streak, Thus Etna, when in fierce eruptions broke, Fills Heaven with ashes, and the Earth with smoke: Here crags of broken rocks are twirl'd on high, Here molten stones and scatter'd cinders fly; Its fury reaches the remotest coast, And strows the Asiatic shore with dust. Now does the sailor from the neighbouring main Look after Gallic towns and forts in vain; No more his wonted marks he can descry, But sees a long unmeasur'd ruin lie; Whilst, pointing to the naked coast, he shows His wondering mates where towns and steeples rose, Where crowded citizens he lately view'd, [stood. And singles out the place where once 'St. Maloes Hére Russel's actions should my Muse require; And, would my strength but second my desire, I'd all his boundless bravery rehearse, And draw his cannons thundering in my verse; High on the deck should the great leader stand, Wrath in his look, and lightning in his hand; Like Homer's Hector when he flung his fire Amidst a thousand ships, and made all Greece retire. But who can run the British triumphs o'er, And count the flames disperst on every shore? Who can describe the scatter'd victory, And draw the reader on from sea to sea? Else who could Ormond's god-like acts refuse, Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse? Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim, Attend him in the noble chase of fame, Thro' all the noise and hurry of the fight, Observe each blow, and keep him still in sight. Oh, did our British peers thus court renown, And grace the coats their great fore-fathers won! Our arms would then triumphantly advance, Nor Henry be the last that conquer'd France. What might not England hope, if such abroad -Purchas'd their country's honour with their blood: When such, detain'd at home, support our state In William's stead, and bear a kingdom's weight, The schemes of Gallic policy o'erthrow, And blast the counsels of the common foe; Direct our armies, and distribute right, And render our Maria's loss more light. But stop my Muse, th' ungrateful sound forbear, Maria's name still wounds each British ear: Each British heart Maria still does wound, And tears burst out unbidden at the sound; Maria still our rising mirth destroys, Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our joys. But see, at length, the British ships appear! Our Nassau comes! and as his fleet draws near, The rising masts advance, the sails grow white, And all his pompous navy floats in sight. Come, mighty prince, desir'd of Britain, come! A TRANSLATION OF ALL VIRGIL'S FOURTH GEORGIC, EXCEPT THE ETHEREAL Sweets shall next my Muse engage, If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine hive. [stores, Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near their To trample under foot the springing flowers; Nor frisking heifers bound about the place, To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise the rising Nor must the lizard's painted brood appear, [grass; Nór wood-pecks, nor the swallow harbour near. They waste the swarms, and as they fly along Convey the tender morsels to their young. Let purling streams, and fountains edg'd with moss, And shallow rills, run trickling through the grass; Whether the neighbouring water stands or runs, Though barks or plaited willows make your hive, A narrow inlet to their cells contrive; For colds congeal and freeze the liquors up, [drop: And, melted down with heat, the waxen buildings The bees, of both extremes alike afraid, Their wax around the whistling crannies spread, |