Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilfome days, 15
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays,

Who, careless now of Int'reft, Fame, or Fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.

And fure, if aught below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine :
A Soul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all Pain, all Paffion, and all Pride,
The rage of Pow'r, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of Lucre, and the dread of Death.

In vain to Deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent shade :
'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Rejudge his acts, and dignify difgrace.
When Int'reft calls off all her sneaking train,
And all th' oblig'd defert, and all the vain;
She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the cell,
When the last ling'ring friend has bid farewel.
Ev'n now, she shades thy Ev'ning-walk with bays,
(No hireling fhe, no prostitute to praise)

20

25

30

36

Ev'n now, obfervant of the parting ray,

Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy various Day,

Thro' Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,

Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is he.

40

EPISTLE

To JAMES CRAGGS, Efq. SECRETARY of STATE.

A

Soul as full of Worth, as void of Pride,
Which nothing feeks to fhew, or needs to
hide,

Which nor to Guilt nor Fear, its Caution owes,
And boasts a Warmth that from no Paffion flows.
A Face untaught to feign; a judging Eye,
That darts severe upon a rifing Lye,
And strikes a blush thro' frontless Flattery.
All this thou wert, and being this before,

5

}

Know, Kings and Fortune cannot make thee more.
Then fcorn to gain a Friend by fervile ways,
Nor wish to lofe a Foe these Virtues raise;
But candid, free, fincere, as you began,
Proceed-a Minifter, but ftill a Man.
Be not (exalted to whate'er degree)
Afham'd of any Friend, not ev'n of Me:
The Patriot's plain, but untrod, path pursue ;

If not, 'tis I must be asham'd of You.

Secretary of State] In the Year 1720,
6

10

15

EPISTLE

To Mr. JERVAS,

With Mr. DRYDEN'S Tranflation of FRESNOY'S Art of Painting.

THIS

HIS Verfe be thine, my friend, nor thou
refuse

This, from no venal or ungrateful Muse,
Whether thy hand ftrike out some free design,
Where Life awakes, and dawns at ev'ry line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read thefe inftructive leaves, in which conspire
Frefnoy's close Art, and Dryden's native Fire:
And reading wish, like theirs, our fate and fame,
So mix'd our ftudies, and fo join'd our name ;
Like them to fhine thro' long fucceeding age,
So just thy skill, fo regular my rage.

10

Epift. to Mr. Jervas.] This Epiftle, and the two following were written fome years before the reft, and c printed in 1717.

riginal

Smit with the love of Sifter-Arts we came, And met congenial, mingling flame with flame; Like friendly colours found them both unite, And each from each contract new strength and light.

20

How oft in pleafing tasks we wear the day,
While fummer-funs roll unperceiv'd away?
How oft' our flowly-growing works impart,
While Images reflect from art to art?
How oft review; each finding like a friend
Something to blame, and something to commend?
What flatt'ring fcenes our wand'ring fancy
wrought,

Rome's pompous glories rifing to our thought!
Together o'er the Alps methinks we fly,
Fir'd with Ideas of fair Italy.

With thee, on Raphael's Monument I mourn,
Or wait infpiring Dreams at Maro's Urn:
With thee repose, where Tully once was laid,
Or feek fome Ruin's formidable shade:
While fancy brings the vanish'd piles to view,
And builds imaginary Rome a-new,
10 Here thy well-study'd marbles fix our eye;
A fading Frefco here demands a figh:
Each heav'nly piece unwearied we compare,

Match Raphael's grace with thy lov'd Guido's air,
acci's ftrength, Correggio's fofter line,

o's free

oke, and Titian's warmth divine.

25

30

35

How finish'd with illuftrious toil appears

*

4!

This fmall, well-polifh'd Gem, the work of years!
Yet ftill how faint by precept is expreft
The living image in the painter's breaft?
Thence endless streams of fair Ideas flow,
Strike in the sketch, or in the picture glow;
Thence Beauty, waking all her forms, supplies
An Angel's fweetnefs, or Bridgewater's eyes.

45

50

Mufe at that Name thy facred forrows fhed, Thofe tears eternal, that embalm the dead: Call round her Tomb each object of defire, Each purer frame inform'd with purer fire: Bid her be all that chears or foftens life, The tender fifter, daughter, friend, and wife: Bid her be all that makes mankind adore ; Then view this Marble, and be vain no more! Yet ftill her charms in breathing paint engage; 55 Her modeft cheek fhall warm a future age. Beauty, frail flow'r that ev'ry season fears, Blooms in thy colours for a thousand years. Thus Churchill's race fhall other hearts furprize, And other Beauties envy Worfley's eyes; Each pleafing Blount fhall endless fmiles bestow, And foft Belinda's blush for ever glow.

Oh lafting as thofe Colours may they shine, Free as thy ftroke, yet faultless as thy line;

60

* Frefney employed above twenty years in finishing his Poem.