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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=545004" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Epistle to Mr. Southerne</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bold is the Muse to leave her humble Cell,<br>And sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well:<br>Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the Crown,<br>And mak'st her rival Athens in Renown.<br>Cou'd Sophocles behold in mournful State,<br>The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or hear thy Isabella's moving Moan,<br>Distress'd and lost for Vices not her own;<br>If Envy cou'd permit, he'd sure agree<br>To write by Nature were to copy thee:<br>So full, so fair thy Images are shown,<br>He by thy Pencil might improve his own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was an Age, (its Memory will last!)<br>Before Italian Airs debauch'd our Taste;<br>In which the sable Muse with Hopes and Fears,<br>Fill'd every Breast, and ev'ry Eye with Tears.<br>But where's that Art, which all our Passions rais'd,<br>And mov'd the Springs of Nature as it pleas'd?<br>Our Poets only practise on the Pit,<br>With florid Lines, and trifling Turns of Wit.<br>Howe'er 'tis well the present Times can boast,<br>The Race of Charles's Reign not wholly lost.<br>Thy Scenes, immortal in their Worth, shall stand<br>Among the chosen Classics of our Land:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And whilst our Sons are by Tradition taught,<br>How Barry spoke what Thou and Otway wrote,<br>They'll think it praise to relish, and repeat,<br>And own thy Works inimitably great.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shakespear, the Genius of our Isle, whose Mind<br>(The universal Mirror of Mankind)<br>Express'd all Images, enrich'd the Stage,<br>But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous Age.<br>When his immortal Bays began to grow,<br>Rude was the Language, and the Humour low.<br>He, like the God of Day, was always bright,<br>But rolling in its Course, his Orb of Light<br>Was sully'd, and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,<br>With Spots contracted from the nether Sky.<br>But whither is th' adventrous Muse betray'd?<br>Forgive her Rashness, venerable Shade! 50 <br>May Spring with Purple Flow'rs perfume thy Urn,<br>And Avon with his Greens thy Grave adorn:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Be all thy Faults, whatever Faults there be,<br>Imputed to the Times, and not to thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some Scions shot from this immortal Root,<br>Their tops much lower, and less fair the Fruit.<br>Johnson, the Tribute of my Verse might claim,<br>Had he not strove to blemish Shakespear's Name.<br>But, like the radiant Twins that gild the Sphere,<br>Fletcher and Beaumont next in Pomp appear:<br>The first a fruitful Vine, in bloomy Pride,<br>Had been by Superfluity destroy'd;<br>But that his Friend, judiciously severe,<br>Prun'd the luxuriant Boughs with artful Care:<br>On various sounding Harps the Muses play'd,<br>And sung, and quaff'd their Nectar in the Shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Few Moderns in the Lists with these may stand,<br>For in those Days were Giants in the Land:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Suffice it now by Lineal Right to claim,<br>And bow with Filial Awe to Shakespear's Fame;<br>The second Honours are a glorious Name.<br>Achilles dead, they found no equal Lord,<br>To wear his Armour, and to wield his Sword.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">An Age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,<br>Discolour'd with a pious Monarch's Blood:<br>Whose Fall when first the Tragick Virgin saw,<br>She fled, and left her Province to the Law.<br>Her Merry Sister still persu'd the Game,<br>Her Garb was alter'd, but her Gifts the same.<br>She first reform'd the Muscles of her Face,<br>And learnt the solemn Scrue, for Signs of Grace;<br>Then circumcis'd her Locks, and form'd her Tone,<br>By humming to a Tabor, and a Drone:<br>Her Eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,<br>Both when to wink, and how to turn the white;<br>Thus banish'd from the Stage, she gravely next<br>Assum'd a Cloak, and quibbl'd o'er a Text.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when by Miracles of Mercy shown,<br>Much-suff'ring Charles regain'd his Father's Throne;<br>When Peace and Plenty overflow'd the Land,<br>She strait pull'd off her Sattin Cap, and Band:<br>Bade Wycherly be bold in her Defence,<br>With pointed Wit, and Energy of Sense:<br>Etherege and Sidley join'd him in her Cause,<br>And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd Applause.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Restor'd with less Success, the Tragic Muse,<br>Had quite forgot her Style by long Disuse:<br>She taught her Maximins to rant in Rhime,<br>Mistaking ratling Nonsense for sublime;<br>'Till witty Buckingham reform'd her Taste,<br>1 And sneering sham'd her into Sense at last.<br>But now relaps'd, she dwindles to a Song,<br>And weakly warbles on an Eunuch's Tongue;<br>And with her Minstrelsie may still remain,<br>'Till Southerne court her to be great again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Perhaps the Beauties of thy Spartan Dame,<br>Who (long defrauded of the publick Fame)<br>Shall, with superior Majesty avow'd,<br>Shine like a Goddess breaking from a Cloud,<br>Once more may re-instate her on the Stage,<br>Her Action graceful, and divine her Rage.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Arts have their Empires, and, like other States,<br>Their Rise and Fall are govern'd by the Fates.<br>They, when their Period's measur'd out by Time,<br>Transplant their Laurels to another Clime.<br>The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud Alarms,<br>The Court of Heav'n, and clad the Gods in Arms:<br>The Trumpet silent, humbly she essay'd<br>The Doric Reed, and sung beneath the Shade;<br>Extoll'd a frugal Life, and taught the Swains<br>T' observe the Seasons, and manure the Plains:<br>Sometimes in warbled Hymns she pay'd her Vow,<br>Or wove Olympic Wreaths for Theron's Brow;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sometimes on flow'ry Beds she lay supine,<br>And gave her Thoughts a Loose to Love and Wine;<br>Or in her sable Stole, and Buskins dress'd,<br>Shew'd Vice enthron'd, and virtuous Kings oppress'd.<br>The Nymph still fair, however past her Bloom,<br>From Greece at length was led in Chains to Rome:<br>Whilst Wars abroad, and civil Discord reign'd,<br>Silent the beauteous Captive long remain'd:<br>That Interval employ'd her timely Care,<br>To Study, and refine the Language there.<br>She views with Anguish on the Roman Stage<br>The Grecian Beauties weep, the Warriors rage:<br>But most those Scenes delight th' immortal Maid,<br>Which Scipio had revis'd, and Roscius Play'd.<br>Thence to the Pleadings of the Gown she goes,<br>(For Themis then cou'd speak in polish'd Prose.)<br>Charm'd at the Bar, amid th' attentive Throng <br>She bless'd the Syren-Pow'r of Tully's Tongue.<br>But when, Octavius, thy successful Sword<br>Was sheath'd, and universal Peace restor'd;<br>Fond of a Monarch, to the Court she came,<br>And chose a num'rous Choir to chant his Fame.<br>First from the green Retreats, and lowly Plains,<br>Her Virgil soar'd sublime in Epic Strains:<br>His Theme so glorious, and his Flight so true,<br>She with Mæonian Garlands grac'd his Brow.<br>Taught Horace then to touch the Lesbian Lyre, <br>And Sappho's Sweetness join'd with Pindar's Fire.<br>By Cæsar's Bounty all the tuneful Train<br>Enjoy'd, and sung of Saturn's golden Reign:<br>No Genius then was left to live on Praise,<br>Or curs'd the barren Ornament of Bays;<br>On all her Sons he cast a kind Regard,<br>Nor could they write so fast as he reward.<br>The Muse, industrious to record his Name<br>In the bright Annals of eternal Fame,<br>Profuse of Favours lavish'd all her Store, <br>And for one Reign made many Ages poor.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now from the rugged North, unnumber'd Swarms<br>Invade the Latian Coasts with barb'rous Arms;<br>A Race unpolish'd, but inur'd to Toil,<br>Rough as their Heav'n, and barren as their Soil:<br>These Locusts ev'ry springing Art destroy'd,<br>And soft Humanity before them dy'd.<br>Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful Strife<br>With Nature's Scenes, nor gave the Canvas Life;<br>Nor Sculpture exercis'd her Skill, beneath<br>Her forming Hand to make the Marble breathe:<br>Struck with Despair, they stood devoid of Thought,<br>Less lively than the Works themselves had wrought.<br>On those Twin-Sisters such Disasters came,<br>Tho' Colours and Proportions are the same<br>In ev'ry Age, and Clime; their Beauties known<br>To ev'ry Language, and confin'd by none.<br>But Fate less Freedom to the Muse affords,<br>And checks her Genius with the Choice of Words:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To paint her Thoughts the Diction must be found<br>Of easy Grandeur, and harmonious Sound.<br>Thus when she rais'd her Voice divinely great,<br>To sing the Founder of the Roman State;<br>The Language was adapted to the Song;<br>Sweet and sublime, with native Beauty strong.<br>But when the Goths insulting Troops appear'd,<br>Such Dissonance the trembling Virgin hear'd!<br>Chang'd to a Swan, from Tyber's troubled Streams<br>She wing'd her Flight, and sought the silver Thames.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Long in the melancholy Grove she stay'd,<br>And taught the pensive Druids in the Shade;<br>In solemn and instructive Notes they sung,<br>From whence the beauteous Frame of Nature sprung;<br>Who polish'd all the radiant Orbs above,<br>And in bright Order made the Planets move;<br>Whence Thunders roar, and frightful Meteors fly,<br>And Comets roll unbounded thro' the Sky:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who wing'd the Winds, and gave the Streams to flow,<br>And rais'd the Rocks, and spread the Lawns below<br>Whence the gay Spring exults in flow'ry Pride,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And Autumn with the bleeding Grape is dy'd;<br>Whence Summer Suns imbrown the lab'ring Swains<br>And shiv'ring Winter pines in icy Chains:<br>And prais'd the Pow'r supream, nor dar'd advance<br>So vain a Theory as that of Chance.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But in this Isle she found the Nymphs so fair,<br>She chang'd her Hand, and chose a softer Air,<br>And Love and Beauty next became her Care.<br>Greece, her lov'd Countrey, only cou'd afford<br>A Venus and a Helen to record;<br>A thousand radiant Nymphs she here beheld,<br>Who match'd the Goddess, and the Queen excell'd.<br>T' immortalize their Loves she long essay'd,<br>But still the Tongue her gen'rous Toil betray'd,<br>Chaucer had All that Beauty cou'd inspire,<br>And Surry's Numbers glow'd with warm Desire:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Both now are priz'd by few, unknown to most,<br>Because the Thoughts are in the Language lost;<br>Ev'n Spencer's Pearls in muddy Waters lie,<br>Yet soon their Beams attract the Diver's Eye.<br>Rich was their Imag'ry, 'till Time defac'd<br>The curious Works: but Waller came at last.<br>Waller, the Muse with heav'nly Verse supplies,<br>Smooth as the Fair, and sparkling as their Eyes;<br>``All but the Nymph, that shou'd redress his Wrong,<br>``Attend his Passion, and approve his Song.<br>But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary Age<br>Suppress'd the Lover's and the Poet's Rage;<br>To Granville his melodious Lute she gave,<br>Granville, whose faithful Verse is Beauty's Slave: <br>Accept this Gift, my fav'rite Youth! she cry'd,<br>To sound a brighter Theme, and sing of Hyde;<br>Hyde's, and thy lovely Myra's Praise proclaim,<br>And match Carlisle's, and Sacharissa's Fame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O! wou'd he now forsake the Myrtle Grove,<br>And sing of Arms, as late he sung of Love!<br>His Colours, and his Hand alone shou'd paint<br>In Britain's Queen, the Warrior and the Saint;<br>In whom conspire, to form her truly great,<br>Wisdom with Pow'r, and Piety with State.<br>Whilst from her Throne the Streams of Justice flow,<br>Strong and serene, to bless the Land below;<br>O'er distant Realms her dreaded Thunders roll,<br>And the wild Rage of Tyranny controul.<br>Her Pow'r to quell, and Pity to redress,<br>The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine confess;<br>Whence bleeding Iber hopes, around his Head<br>To see fresh Olive spring, and Plenty spread:<br>And whilst they sound their great Deliv'rer's Fame,<br>The Sein retires, and sickens at her Name. <br>O Granville! all these glorious Scenes display,<br>Instruct succeeding Monarchs how to sway;<br>And make her Memory rever'd by all,<br>When Triumphs are forgot, and mould'ring Arches fall.<br>Pardon me, Friend! I own my Muse too free,<br>To write so long on such a Theme to thee:<br>To play the Critic here - with equal Right<br>Bid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight:<br>Instruct th' unerring Sun to guide the Year,<br>And Harley by what Schemes he ought to steer. <br>Give Harcourt Eloquence t' adorn the Seal,<br>Maxims of State to Leeds, to Beaufort Zeal.<br>Try to correct what Orrery shall write,<br>And make harmonious St. John more Polite.<br>Teach Law to Isla for the Crown's Support,<br>And Jersey how to serve, and grace a Court:<br>Dictate soft warbling Airs to Sheffield's Hand,<br>When Venus and her Loves around him stand:<br>In sage Debates to Rochester impart<br>A searching Head, and ever faithful Heart: <br>Make Talbot's finish'd Virtue more compleat,<br>High without Pride, and amiably great;<br>Where Nature all her Pow'rs with Fortune join'd,<br>At once to please, and benefit Mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Cares were to my blooming Youth unknown,<br>My Fancy free, and all my Hours my own;<br>I lov'd along the Laureat Grove to stray,<br>The Paths were pleasant, and the Prospect gay:<br>But now my Genius sinks, and hardly knows<br>To make a Couplet tinkle in the Close.<br>Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,<br>And quit the Town to breathe a purer Air;<br>Retiring from the Crowd, to steal the Sweets<br>Of easy Life in Twysden's calm Retreats;<br>(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,<br>And in Campania scorn'd the Pomp of Rome.)<br>Where Lambard, form'd for Business, and to please<br>By sharing, will improve your Happiness;<br>In both their Souls imperial Reason sways,<br>In both the Patriot, and the Friend displays; <br>Be lov'd, and prais'd by all, who merit Love and Praise.<br>With bright Ideas there inspir'd anew,<br>By them excited, and inform'd by you,<br>I may with happier Skill essay to sing<br>Sublimer Notes, and strike a bolder String.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Languid and dull, when absent from her Cave,<br>No Oracles of old the Sybil gave;<br>But when beneath her sacred Shrine she stood,<br>Her Fury soon confess'd the coming God;<br>Her Breast began to heave, her Eyes to roul,<br>And wond'rous Visions fill'd her labouring Soul.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elijah+Fenton">Elijah Fenton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=545004" data-title="An Epistle to Mr. Southerne de Elijah Fenton" data-description="Bold is the Muse to leave her humble Cell,
And 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.
Cou'd Sophocles behold in mournful State,
The weeping Graces on Imoin..."></div>
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