The Poetical Works of Elijah Fenton/An Epistle to Mr. Southerne

by Elijah Fenton

AN EPISTLE

TO MR. SOUTHERNE,

FROM KENT, JANUARY 28. 1710-11.

Bold is the Muse to leave her humble cellAnd sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well;Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the crown,And mak'st her rival Athens in renown.Could Sophocles behold in mournful state 5The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait,Or hear thy Isabella's moving moan,Distress'd and lost for vices not her own;If envy could permit, he'd sure agreeTo write by nature were to copy thee; 10So full, so fair, thy images are shown,He by thy pencil might improve his own. There was an age (its memory will last)Before Italian airs debauch'd our taste,In which the sable Muse with hopes and fears 15Fill'd ev'ry breast and ev'ry eye with tears:But where's that art which all our passions rais'd,And mov'd the springs of Nature as it pleas'd?Our poets only practise on the pitWith florid lines, and trifling turns of wit. 20Howe'er ’tis well the present times can boastThe race of Charles's reign not wholly lost.Thy scenes, immortal in their worth, shall standAmong the chosen classics of our land:And whilst our sons are by tradition taught 25How Barry spoke what thou and Otway wrote,They'll think it praise to relish and repeat,And own thy works inimitably great.Shakespeare, the genius of our isle, whose mind(The universal mirror of mankind) 30Express'd all images, enrich'd the stage,But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous age.When his immortal bays began to grow,Rude was the language, and the humour low:He, like the god of Day, was always bright; 35But, rolling in its course, his orb of lightWas fully'd and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,With spots contracted from the nether sky.But whither is th' advent'rous Muse betray'd?Forgive her rashness, venerable Shade! 40 May Spring with purple flow'rs perfume thy urn,And Avon with his greens thy grave adorn:Be all thy faults, whatever faults there be,Imputed to the times, and not to thee.Some scions shot from this immortal root, 45Their tops much lower, and less fair the fruit.Johnson the tribute of my verse might claim,Had he not strove to blemish Shakespeare's name.But, like the radiant Twins that gild the sphere,Fletcher and Beaumont next in pomp appear: 50The first a fruitful vine, in blooming pride,Had been by superfluity destroy'd,But that his friend, judiciously severe,Prun'd the luxuriant boughs with artful care;On various-sounding harps the Muses play'd, 55And sung, and quaff'd their nectar in the shade.Few Moderns in the lists with these may stand,For in those days were giants in the land;$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Suffice it now by lineal right to claim,And bow with filial awe to Shakespeare's fame:The second honours are a glorious name. 61Achilles dead, they found no equal lordTo wear his armour and to wield his sword.An age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,Discolour'd with a pious monarch's blood, 65Whose fall when first the Tragic Virgin saw,She filed, and left her province to the law. Her merry sister still pursu'd the game;Her garb was alter'd, but her gifts the same.She first reform'd the muscles of her face, 70And learn'd the solemn screw for signs of grace;Then circumcis'd her locks, and form'd her tone,By humming to a tabor and a drone;Her eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,Both when to wink, and how to turn the white: 75Thus, banish'd from the stage, she gravely nextAssum'd a cloak, and quibbled o'er a text.But when, by miracles of mercy shown,Much-suffering Charles regain'd his father's throne;When peace and plenty overflow'd the land, 80She straight pull'd off her satin cap and band,Bade Wycherley be bold in her defence,With pointed wit and energy of sense;Eth'rege and Sedley join'd him in her cause,And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd, applause. 85Restor'd with less success, the Tragic MuseHad quite forgot her style by long disuse:She taught her Maximins to rant in rhyme,Mistaking rattling nonsense for sublime,Till witty Buckingham reform'd her taste, 90And sneering sham'd her into sense at last:But now relaps'd, the dwindles to a song,And weakly warbles on an eunuch's tongue,And with her minstrelsy may still remainTill Southerne court her to be great again. 95 Perhaps the beauties of thy Spartan dame,Who (long defrauded of the public fame)Shall, with superior majesty avow'd,Shine like a goddess breaking from a cloud,Once more may re-instate her on the stage, 100Her action graceful, and divine her rage.Arts have their empires, and, like other states,Their rise and fall are govern'd by the Fates:They, when their period's measur'd out by time,Transplant their laurels to another clime. 105The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud alarmsThe court of heav'n, and clad the gods in arms;The trumpet silent, humbly she essay'dThe Doric reed, and sung beneath the shade,Extoll'd a frugal life, and taught the swains 110T'observe the seasons, and manure the plains:Sometimes in warbled hymns she paid her vow,Or wove Olympic wreaths for Theron's brow;Sometimes on flow'ry beds she lay supine,And gave her thoughts a loose to love and wine; 115Or, in her sable stole and buskins dress'd,Shew'd Vice enthron'd, and virtuous kings oppress'd.The nymph still fair, however past her bloom,From Greece at length was led in chains to Rome:Whilst wars abroad and civil discord reign'd, 120Silent the beauteous captive long remain'd;That interval employ'd her timely careTo study and refine the language there. She views with anguish on the Roman stageThe Grecian beauties weep, the warriors rage; 125But most those scenes delight th' immortal maidWhich Scipio had revis'd and Roscius play'd.Thence to the pleadings of the gown she goes,(For Themis then could speak in polish'd prose)Charm'd at the bar, amid th' attentive throng 130She bless'd the Syren pow'r of Tully's tongue:But when, Octavius! thy successful swordWas sheath'd, and universal peace restor’d,Fond of a monarch, to the court she came,And chose a num'rous choir to chant his fame. 135First from the green retreats and lowly plainsHer Virgil soar'd sublime in epic strains;His theme so glorious, and his flight so true,She with Mæonian garlands grac'd his brow;Taught Horace then to touch the Lesbian lyre, 140And Sappho's sweetness join'd with Pindar's fire.By Cæsar's bounty all the tuneful trainEnjoy'd, and sung of Saturn's golden reign:No genius then was left to live on praise,Or curs'd the barren ornament of bays; 145On all her sons he cast a kind regard,Nor could they write so fast as he reward.The Muse, industrious to record his nameIn the bright annals of eternal fame,Profuse of favours lavish'd, all her store, 150And for one reign made many ages poor. Now from the rugged North unnumber'd swarmsInvade the Latian coasts with barb'rous arms;A race unpolish'd, but inur'd to toil,Rough as their heav'n, and barren as their soil: 155These locusts ev'ry springing art destroy'd,And soft Humanity before them dy'd.Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful strifeWith Nature's scenes, nor gave the canvass life;Nor Sculpture exercis'd her skill, beneath 160Her forming hand to make the marble breathe:Struck with despair, they stood devoid of thought,Less lively than the works themselves had wrought.On those twin-sisters such disasters came,Tho' colours and proportions are the same 165In ev'ry age and clime, their beauties knownTo ev'ry language, and confin'd by none.But Fate less freedom to the Muse affords,And checks her genius with the choice of words:To paint her thoughts the diction must be foundOf easy grandeur and harmonious sound. 171Thus when the rais'd her voice, divinely great,To sing the founder of the Roman state,The language was adapted to the song,Sweet and sublime, with native beauty strong; 175But when the Goths' insulting troops appear'd,Such dissonance the trembling virgin heard,Chang'd to a swan, from Tyber's troubled streamsShe wing'd her flight, and sought the silver Thames. Long in the melancholy grove she said, 180And taught the pensive Druids in the shade;In solemn and instructive notes they sungFrom whence the beauteous frame of Nature sprung,Who polish'd all the radiant orbs above,And in bright order made the planets move; 185Whence thunders roar, and frightful meteors fly,And comets roll unbounded thro' the sky;Who wing'd the winds, and gave the streams to flow,And rais'd the rocks, and spread the lawns below;Whence the gay spring exults in flow'ry pride, 190And autumn with the bleeding grape is dy'd;Whence summer suns imbrown the lab’ring swains,And shiv'ring winter pines in icy chains;And prais'd the Pow'r Supreme, nor dar'd advanceSo vain a theory as that of Chance. 195$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But in this isle she found the nymphs so fair,She chang'd her hand, and chose a softer air,And Love and Beauty next became her care.Greece, her lov'd country, only could affordA Venus and a Helen to record; 200A thousand radiant nymphs she here beheld,Who match'd the goddess, and the queen excell'd:T' immortalize their loves she long essay'd,But still the tongue her gen'rous toil betray'd.Chaucer had all that beauty could inspire, 205And Surrey's numbers glow'd with warm desire: Both now are priz'd by few, unknown to most,Because the thoughts are in the language lost.Ev'n Spenser's pearls in muddy waters lie;Yet soon their beams attract the diver's eye: 210Rich was their imag'ry, till Time defac'dThe curious works. But Waller came at last.Waller the Muse with heav'nly verse supplies,Smooth as the fair, and sparkling as their eyes; 214"All but the nymph that should redress his wrong"Attend his passion, and approve his song."But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary ageSuppress'd the lover's and the poet's rage,To Granville his melodious lute she gave,Granville! whose faithful verse is Beauty's slave: 220"Accept this gift, my fav'rite Youth!" she cry'd,"To sound a brighter theme, and sing of Hyde;"Hyde's and thy lovely Myra's praise proclaim,"And match Carlisle's and Sacharissa's fame."O! would he now forsake the myrtle grove, 225And sing of arms as late he sung of love!His colours and his hand alone should paintIn Britain's queen the warrior and the saint;In whom conspire, to form her truly great,Wisdom with pow'r, and piety with state. 230Whilst from her throne the streams of justice flow,Strong and serene, to bless the land below,O'er distant realms her dreaded thunders roll,And the wild rage of tyranny control. Her pow'r to quell, and pity to redress, 235The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, confess;Whence bleeding Iber hopes around his headTo see fresh olive spring, and plenty spread;And whilst they sound their great deliv'rer's fame,The Seine retires, and sickens at her name. 240O Granville! all these glorious scenes display,Instruct succeeding monarchs how to sway,And make her memory rever'd by all,When triumphs are forgot, and mould'ring arches fall.Pardon me, Friend! I own my Muse too free 245To write so long on such a theme to thee:To play the critic here-with equal rightBid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight;Instruct th' unerring sun to guide the year,And Harley by what schemes he ought to steer; 250Give Harcourt eloquence t'adorn the seal,Maxims of state to Leeds, to Beaufort zeal;Try to correct what Orrery shall write,And make harmonious St. John more polite;Teach law to Isla for the crown's support, 255And Jersey how to serve and grace a court;Dictate soft warbling airs to Sheffield's hand,When Venus and her Loves around him stand;In sage debates to Rochester impartA searching head and ever faithful heart; 260 Make Talbot's finish'd virtue more complete,High without pride, and amiably great,Where Nature all her pow'rs with Fortune join'd,At once to please and benefit mankind.When cares were to my blooming youth unknown,My fancy free, and all my hours my own, 266I lov'd along the laureat grove to stray,The paths were pleasant, and the prospect gay;But now my genius sinks, and hardly knowsTo make a couplet tinkle in the close. 270Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,And quit the Town to breathe a purer air,Retiring from the crowd to steal the sweetsOf easy life in Twysden's calm retreats,(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come, 275And in Campania scorn'd the pomp of Rome)Where Lambard, form'd for bus'ness, and to please,By sharing will improve your happiness;$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$In both their souls imperial reason sways,In both the patriot and the friend displays; 280Be lov'd, and prais'd by all who merit love and praise.With bright ideas there inspir'd anew,By them excited, and inform'd by you,I may with happier skill essay to singSublimer notes, and strike a bolder string. 285Languid and dull, when absent from her cave,No oracles of old the Sibyl gave; But when beneath her sacred shrine she stood,Her fury soon confess'd the coming god;Her breast began to heave, her eyes to roll,And wondrous visions fill'd her lab'ring soul. 291