An Epistle To Mr. Southerne Poem by Elijah Fenton

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 Imoinda wait;

Or hear thy Isabella's moving Moan,
Distress'd and lost for Vices not her own;
If Envy cou'd permit, he'd sure agree
To write by Nature were to copy thee:
So 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,
Fill'd every 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 Pit,
With florid Lines, and trifling Turns of Wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present Times can boast,
The Race of Charles's Reign not wholly lost.
Thy Scenes, immortal in their Worth, shall stand
Among the chosen Classics of our Land:

And whilst our Sons are by Tradition taught,
How Barry spoke what Thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish, and repeat,
And own thy Works inimitably great.

Shakespear, the Genius of our Isle, whose Mind
(The universal Mirror of Mankind)
Express'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,
But rolling in its Course, his Orb of Light
Was sully'd, and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,
With Spots contracted from the nether Sky.
But whither is th' adventrous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her Rashness, venerable Shade! 50
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,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the Fruit.
Johnson, the Tribute of my Verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespear's Name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the Sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in Pomp appear:
The first a fruitful Vine, in bloomy 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,
And 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:

Suffice it now by Lineal Right to claim,
And bow with Filial Awe to Shakespear's Fame;
The second Honours are a glorious Name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal Lord,
To 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:
Whose Fall when first the Tragick Virgin saw,
She fled, and left her Province to the Law.
Her Merry Sister still persu'd the Game,
Her Garb was alter'd, but her Gifts the same.
She first reform'd the Muscles of her Face,
And learnt the solemn Scrue, 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;
Thus banish'd from the Stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a Cloak, and quibbl'd o'er a Text.

But when by Miracles of Mercy shown,
Much-suff'ring Charles regain'd his Father's Throne;
When Peace and Plenty overflow'd the Land,
She strait pull'd off her Sattin Cap, and Band:
Bade Wycherly be bold in her Defence,
With pointed Wit, and Energy of Sense:
Etherege and Sidley join'd him in her Cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd Applause.

Restor'd with less Success, the Tragic Muse,
Had quite forgot her Style by long Disuse:
She taught her Maximins to rant in Rhime,
Mistaking ratling Nonsense for sublime;
'Till witty Buckingham reform'd her Taste,
1 And sneering sham'd her into Sense at last.
But now relaps'd, she dwindles to a Song,
And weakly warbles on an Eunuch's Tongue;
And with her Minstrelsie may still remain,
'Till Southerne court her to be great again.

Perhaps the Beauties of thy Spartan Dame,
Who (long defrauded of the publick Fame)
Shall, with superior Majesty avow'd,
Shine like a Goddess breaking from a Cloud,
Once more may re-instate her on the Stage,
Her 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.
The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud Alarms,
The Court of Heav'n, and clad the Gods in Arms:
The Trumpet silent, humbly she essay'd
The Doric Reed, and sung beneath the Shade;
Extoll'd a frugal Life, and taught the Swains
T' observe the Seasons, and manure the Plains:
Sometimes in warbled Hymns she pay'd 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;
Or 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,
Silent the beauteous Captive long remain'd:
That Interval employ'd her timely Care,
To Study, and refine the Language there.
She views with Anguish on the Roman Stage
The Grecian Beauties weep, the Warriors rage:
But most those Scenes delight th' immortal Maid,
Which Scipio had revis'd, and Roscius Play'd.
Thence to the Pleadings of the Gown she goes,
(For Themis then cou'd speak in polish'd Prose.)
Charm'd at the Bar, amid th' attentive Throng
She bless'd the Syren-Pow'r of Tully's Tongue.
But when, Octavius, thy successful Sword
Was 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.
First from the green Retreats, and lowly Plains,
Her 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,
And Sappho's Sweetness join'd with Pindar's Fire.
By Cæsar's Bounty all the tuneful Train
Enjoy'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;
On all her Sons he cast a kind Regard,
Nor could they write so fast as he reward.
The Muse, industrious to record his Name
In the bright Annals of eternal Fame,
Profuse of Favours lavish'd all her Store,
And for one Reign made many Ages poor.

Now from the rugged North, unnumber'd Swarms
Invade 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:
These Locusts ev'ry springing Art destroy'd,
And soft Humanity before them dy'd.
Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful Strife
With Nature's Scenes, nor gave the Canvas Life;
Nor Sculpture exercis'd her Skill, beneath
Her 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
In ev'ry Age, and Clime; their Beauties known
To 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 found
Of easy Grandeur, and harmonious Sound.
Thus when she 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.
But when the Goths insulting Troops appear'd,
Such Dissonance the trembling Virgin hear'd!
Chang'd to a Swan, from Tyber's troubled Streams
She wing'd her Flight, and sought the silver Thames.

Long in the melancholy Grove she stay'd,
And taught the pensive Druids in the Shade;
In solemn and instructive Notes they sung,
From whence the beauteous Frame of Nature sprung;
Who polish'd all the radiant Orbs above,
And in bright Order made the Planets move;
Whence 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,

And 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 supream, nor dar'd advance
So vain a Theory as that of Chance.

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 Countrey, only cou'd afford
A Venus and a Helen to record;
A 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 cou'd inspire,
And Surry'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 Spencer's Pearls in muddy Waters lie,
Yet soon their Beams attract the Diver's Eye.
Rich was their Imag'ry, 'till Time defac'd
The curious Works: but Waller came at last.
Waller, the Muse with heav'nly Verse supplies,
Smooth as the Fair, and sparkling as their Eyes;
``All but the Nymph, that shou'd redress his Wrong,
``Attend his Passion, and approve his Song.
But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary Age
Suppress'd the Lover's and the Poet's Rage;
To Granville his melodious Lute she gave,
Granville, whose faithful Verse is Beauty's Slave:
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! wou'd he now forsake the Myrtle Grove,
And sing of Arms, as late he sung of Love!
His Colours, and his Hand alone shou'd paint
In Britain's Queen, the Warrior and the Saint;
In whom conspire, to form her truly great,
Wisdom with Pow'r, and Piety with State.
Whilst 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 controul.
Her Pow'r to quell, and Pity to redress,
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine confess;
Whence bleeding Iber hopes, around his Head
To see fresh Olive spring, and Plenty spread:
And whilst they sound their great Deliv'rer's Fame,
The Sein retires, and sickens at her Name.
O 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,
To write so long on such a Theme to thee:
To play the Critic here - with equal Right
Bid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight:
Instruct th' unerring Sun to guide the Year,
And Harley by what Schemes he ought to steer.
Give 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,
And 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 impart
A searching Head, and ever faithful Heart:
Make Talbot's finish'd Virtue more compleat,
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;
I lov'd along the Laureat Grove to stray,
The Paths were pleasant, and the Prospect gay:
But now my Genius sinks, and hardly knows
To make a Couplet tinkle in the Close.
Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,
And quit the Town to breathe a purer Air;
Retiring from the Crowd, to steal the Sweets
Of easy Life in Twysden's calm Retreats;
(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,
And in Campania scorn'd the Pomp of Rome.)
Where Lambard, form'd for Business, and to please
By sharing, will improve your Happiness;
In both their Souls imperial Reason sways,
In both the Patriot, and the Friend displays;
Be 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 sing
Sublimer Notes, and strike a bolder String.

Languid and dull, when absent from her Cave,
No Oracles of old the Sybil 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 roul,
And wond'rous Visions fill'd her labouring Soul.