In this distich is another line of which Pope was not the author. I do not mean to blame these imitations with much harshness; in long performances they are scarcely to be avoided; and in shorter they may be indulged, because the train of the composition may naturally involve them, or the scantiness of the subject allow little choice. However, what is borrowed is not to be enjoyed as our own; and it is the business of critical justice to give every bird of the muses his proper feather.
Blest courtier!
Whether a courtier can properly be commended for keeping his ease sacred, may, perhaps, be disputable. To please king and country, without sacrificing friendship to any change of times, was a very uncommon instance of prudence or felicity, and deserved to be kept separate from so poor a commendation as care of his ease. I wish our poets would attend a little more accurately to the use of the word sacred, which surely should never be applied in a serious composition, but where some reference may be made to a higher being, or where some duty is exacted, or implied. A man may keep his friendship sacred, because promises of friendship are very awful ties; but, methinks, he cannot, but in a burlesque sense, be said to keep his ease sacred.
Blest peer!
The blessing ascribed to the peer has no connexion with his peerage; they might happen to any other man whose ancestors were remembered, or whose posterity are likely to be regarded.
I know not whether this epitaph be worthy either of the writer or of the man entombed.
II
On sir William Trumbull, one of the principal secretaries of state to king William the third, who, having resigned his place, died in his retirement at Easthamstead, in Berkshire, 1716.
A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign’d;
Honour unchang’d, a principle profest,
Fix’d to one side, but mod’rate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true;
Fill’d with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A gen’rous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;
Such this man was; who now, from earth remov’d,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov’d.
In this epitaph, as in many others, there appears, at the first view, a fault which, I think, scarcely any beauty can compensate. The name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead; and to what purpose is any thing told of him whose name is concealed? An epitaph, and a history of a nameless hero, are equally absurd, since the virtues and qualities so recounted in either are scattered at the mercy of fortune to be appropriated by guess. The name, it is true, may be read upon the stone; but what obligation has it to the poet, whose verses wander over the earth, and leave their subject behind them, and who is forced, like an unskilful painter, to make his purpose known by adventitious help?