AN EPISTLE,
ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.
| Sir, While, own’d by you, with smiles the Muse surveys The expected triumph of her sweetest lays: While, stretch’d at ease, she boasts your guardian aid, Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade: Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows, In just remembrance of the debt she owes; With conscious, &c. While, born to bring the Muse’s happier days A patriot’s hand protects a poet’s lays, While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom, Green and unwither’d o’er his honour’d tomb; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell 5 What secret transports in her bosom swell: With conscious awe she hears the critic’s fame, And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare’s name. Long slighted Fancy with a mother’s care Wept o’er his works, and felt the last despair: Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall, By all deserted, though admired by all: Hard was the lot those injured strains endured, Unown’d by Science, and by years obscured: 10 79 And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resign Whate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine? Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard, And scornful Pride reject the unletter’d bard? Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign, Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train, If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have known One perfect mind, which judgment calls its own; There every breast its fondest hopes must bend, And every Muse with tears await her friend.” ’Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose, In kind compassion of her sister’s woes. ’Twas then she promised to the mourning maid The immortal honours which thy hands have paid: “My best loved son,” she said, “shall yet restore Thy ruin’d sweets, and Fancy weep no more.” Each rising art by slow gradation moves; Toil builds, &c. Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess’d A fix’d despair in every tuneful breast. Not with more grief the afflicted swains appear, When wintry winds deform the plenteous year; When lingering frosts the ruin’d seats invade 15 Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play’d. Each rising art by just gradation moves, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves: The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage, And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage. 20 Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart Each changeful wish of Phædra’s tortured heart; 80 Or paint the curse that mark’d the Theban’s[54] reign, A bed incestuous, and a father slain. Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow, With kind concern our pitying eyes o’erflow, 25 Trace the sad tale, and own another’s woe. To Rome removed, with equal power to please, To Rome removed, with wit secure to please, The comic Sisters kept their native ease: With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld Her own Menander’s art almost excell’d; 30 But every Muse essay’d to raise in vain Some labour’d rival of her tragic strain: Ilissus’ laurels, though transferr’d with toil, Droop’d their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly soil. As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose; 35 When Rome herself, her envied glories dead, No more imperial, stoop’d her conquer’d head; Luxuriant Florence chose a softer theme, While all was peace, by Arno’s silver stream. With sweeter notes the Etrurian vales complain’d, And arts reviving told a Cosmo reign’d. Their wanton lyres the bards of Provence strung, Sweet flow’d the lays, but love was all they sung. The gay, &c. Goths, Priests, or Vandals,––all were Learning’s foes. 81 Till Julius[55] first recall’d each exiled maid, And Cosmo own’d them in the Etrurian shade: Then, deeply skill’d in love’s engaging theme, The soft Provençal pass’d to Arno’s stream: 40 With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung; Sweet flow’d the lays––but love was all he sung. The gay description could not fail to move, For, led by nature, all are friends to love. But Heaven, still rising in its works, decreed But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed 45 The perfect boast of time should last succeed. The beauteous union must appear at length, Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength: One greater Muse Eliza’s reign adorn, And e’en a Shakespeare to her fame be born! 50 Yet ah! so bright her morning’s opening ray, In vain our Britain hoped an equal day! No second growth the western isle could bear, At once exhausted with too rich a year. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic’s part; 55 Nature in him was almost lost in art. Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came, The next in order, as the next in name; With pleased attention, ’midst his scenes we find Each glowing thought that warms the female mind; 60 82 Each melting sigh, and every tender tear; The lover’s wishes, and the virgin’s fear. His every strain the Loves and Graces own; His every strain[56] the Smiles and Graces own; But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone: Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand 65 The unrival’d picture of his early hand. With[57] gradual steps and slow, exacter France Saw Art’s fair empire o’er her shores advance: By length of toil a bright perfection knew, Correctly bold, and just in all she drew: 70 Till late Corneille from epick Lucan brought The full expression, and the Roman thought: Till late Corneille, with Lucan’s[58] spirit fired, Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired: And classic judgment gain’d to sweet Racine The temperate strength of Maro’s chaster line. But wilder far the British laurel spread, 75 And wreaths less artful crown our poet’s head. 83 Yet he alone to every scene could give The historian’s truth, and bid the manners live. Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. 80 There Henry’s trumpets spread their loud alarms, And laurel’d Conquest waits her hero’s arms. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die! Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring 85 No beam of comfort to the guilty king: The time[59] shall come when Glo’ster’s heart shall bleed, In life’s last hours, with horror of the deed; When dreary visions shall at last present Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent: 90 Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear! Where’er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove 95 With humbler nature, in the rural grove; Where swains contented own the quiet scene, And twilight fairies tread the circled green: Dress’d by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle. 100 84 O, blest in all that genius gives to charm, Whose morals mend us, and whose passions warm! Oft let my youth attend thy various page, Where rich invention rules the unbounded stage: There every scene the poet’s warmth may raise, And melting music find the softest lays: O, might the Muse with equal ease persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid! Some powerful Raphael should again appear, And arts consenting fix their empire here. O, more than all in powerful genius blest, Come, take thine empire o’er the willing breast! Whate’er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel, Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal! There every thought the poet’s warmth may raise, 105 There native music dwells in all the lays. O might some verse with happiest skill persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid! What wondrous draughts might rise from every page! What other Raphaels charm a distant age! 110 Methinks e’en now I view some fair design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line; Chaste and subdued, the modest colours lie, In fair proportion to the approving eye: And see where Anthony lamenting stands, In fixt distress, and spreads his pleading hands: O’er the pale corse the warrior seems to bend, Methinks e’en now I view some free design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line: 85 Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay, Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. And see where Anthony,[60] in tears approved, 115 Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved: O’er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder’d friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound. 120 But who[61] is he, whose brows exalted bear A rage impatient, and a fiercer air? E’en now his thoughts with eager vengeance doom The last sad ruin of ungrateful Rome. Till, slow advancing o’er the tented plain, In sable weeds, appear the kindred train: The frantic mother leads their wild despair, Beats her swoln breast, and rends her silver hair; And see, he yields! the tears unbidden start, And conscious nature claims the unwilling heart! O’er all the man conflicting passions rise; A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? Awake to all that injured worth can feel, On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel; Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall 125 (So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall. See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train, Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain! 86 Touch’d to the soul, in vain he strives to hide The son’s affection, in the Roman’s pride: 130 O’er all the man conflicting passions rise; Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes. Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires, The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires; Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring, 135 Spread the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind, (For poets ever were a careless kind,) By thee disposed, no farther toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand. 140 So spread o’er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown, E’en Homer’s numbers charm’d by parts alone. Their own Ulysses scarce had wander’d more, By winds and waters cast on every shore: When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join’d 145 Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind; Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim A fond alliance with the Poet’s name. |
Oxford, Dec. 3,
1743.