The world to Bacon does not only owe
Its prefent knowledge, but its future too.
Gilber fhall live, till loadstones cease to draw,
Or British fleets the boundless ocean awe.
And noble Boyle, not lefs in nature seen,
Than his great brother read in states and men.
The circling ftreams, once thought but pools, of blood
(Whether life's fuel, or the body's food)
From dark oblivion Harvey's name shall save;
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are you, learned friend, the leaft renown'd;
Whofe fame, not circumfcrib'd with English ground,
Flies like the nimble journies of the light;
And is, like that, unfpent too in its flight.
Whatever truths have been, by art or chance,
Redeem'd from error, or from ignorance,
Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore,
Your works unite, and still discover more.
Such is the healing virtue of your pen,
To perfect cures on books, as well as men.
Nor is this work the leaft: you well may give
To men new vigour, who make stones to live.
Through you, the Danes, their fhort dominion loft,
A longer conquest than the Saxons boast.
Stonehenge, once thought a temple, you have found
A throne, where kings, our earthly gods, were crown'd;
Where by their wondering subjects they were feen,
Joy'd with their ftature, and their princely mien.
Our fovereign here above the rest might stand,
And here be chofe again to rule the land.
These ruins fhelter'd once his facred head,
When he from Wor'fter's fatal battle fled;
Watch'd by the genius of this royal place,
And mighty vifions of the Danish race.
His refuge then was for a temple shown:
But, he reftor'd, 'tis now become a throne.
TO THE LADY CASTLEMAIN, UPON HER ENCORAGING HIS FIRST PLAY.
S feamen, fhipwreck'd on fome happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain:
So my much-envy'd Mufe, by ftorms long toft,.
Is thrown upon your hofpitable coaft,
And finds more favour by her ill fuccefs,
Than fhe could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppofe;
While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chofe::
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.
Let others ftill triumph, and gain their cause
By their deferts, or by the world's applause ;.
Let merit crowns, and juftice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise,
Fame is the trumpet, but your fmile the prize.
You fit above, and fee vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow:
But those great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance:
So great a foul, fuch sweetness join'd in one,
Could only fpring from noble Grandifon.
You, like the ftars, not by reflection bright,
Are born to your own heaven, and your own light;
Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,
From your own knowledge, not from nature's laws.
Your power you never use, but for defence,
To guard your own, or others' innocence:
Your foes are fuch, as they, not you, have made,
And virtue may repel, though not invade.
Such courage did the antient heroes fhow,
Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow:
With fuch affurance as they meant to say,
We will o'ercome, but fcorn the safest way.
What further fear of danger can there be?
Beauty, which captives all things, fets me free.
Pofterity will judge by my fuccefs,
I had the Grecian poet's happiness,
Who, waving plots, found out a better way;
Some God defcended, and preferv'd the play.
When firft the triumphs of your fex were fung
By thofe old poets, beauty was but young,
And few admir'd the native red and white,
Till poets drefs'd them up to charm the fight;
So beauty took on truft, and did engage
For fums of praises till she came to age.
But this long-growing debt to poetry
You juftly, madam, have discharg'd to me,
When your applause and favour did infuse
New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse.
TO MR. LEE, ON HIS ALEXANDER.
common cenfure could I fear, Before your play my name fhould not appear; For 't will be thought, and with fome colour too, I pay the bribe I first receiv'd from you; That mutual vouchers for our fame we ftand, And play the game into each other's hand; And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford, As Beffus and the brothers of the fword. Such libels private men may well endure, When ftates and kings themselves are not fecure: For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt, Think the best actions on by-ends are built. And yet my filence had not 'fcap'd their spite; Then, envy had not fuffer'd me to write; For, fince I could not ignorance pretend, Such merit I must envy or commend. So many candidates there stand for wit, A place at court is scarce so hard to get: In vain they crowd each other at the door; For ev'n reverfions are all begg'd before:
Defert, how known foe'er, is long delay'd;
And then too fools and knaves are better pay'd.
Yet, as fome actions bear so great a name,
That courts themselves are just, for fear of shame;
So has the mighty merit of your play
Extorted praife, and forc'd itself away.
Tis here as 'tis at fea; who fartheft goes,
Or dares the most, makes all the rest his foes.
Yet when fome virtue much outgrows the reft,
It fhoots too faft, and high, to be expreft;
As his heroic worth ftruck envy dumb,
Who took the Dutchman, and who cut the boom.
Such praise is yours, while you the paffions move,
That 'tis no longer feign'd, 'tis real love,
Where nature triumphs over wretched art;
We only warm the head, but you the heart.
Always you warm; and if the rifing year,
As in hot regions, brings the fun too near,
'Tis but to make your fragrant fpices blow,
Which in our cooler climates will not grow.
They only think you animate your theme
With too much fire, who are themselves all phlegm.
Prizes would be for lags of flowest pace,
Were cripples made the judges of the race.
Despise those drones, who praife, while they accufe,
The too much vigour of your youthful Muse.
That humble ftyle which they your virtue make,
Is in your power; you need but ftoop and take.
Your beauteous images must be allow'd
By all, but fome vile poets of the crowd.
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